Edward, who?
by CynicalDreamerC
Summary: She's alone but doesn't quite realise it, until she runs into - literally - a man who can't remember who he is. Can they save each other? Or will the reality tear them apart? Hilarity and a bunch of fluffly, "Because I think there should be someone to worry about you, too" moments ensue. Some angst, and a slow, sweet burn
1. 1: Hitting, but hoping they're breathing

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I hit someone with my truck, but it's cool, they're still breathing (I'm pretty sure).**

The day started off just like any other.

I woke up, bleary-eyed, to world's _worst_ alarm clock.

Don't misconstrue me; I don't have a personal vendetta against alarm clocks. No, I do not find their numbers or hard plastic offensive. I don't have nightmares about its screeching wakeup call – because it doesn't _wake me up_ half the time.

I'm not a heavy sleeper. There's just no screeching noise more often than there _is_ one.

So, with the red numbers glowering down at me ominously, I hauled-ass to the bathroom – tripping several times on the way there, may I add – and threw myself into the shower.

This is always a bad move. It's always freaking _freezing_.

And there's really no need for me to take a cold shower – ever.

I'm pretty sure I'm asexual.

From thereon I throw clothes on and yank a brush through my hair, because at this point, I'm half-hour late and really not giving two freaking _fudge-nuts_ about any sense of calmness or composure.

Composure went out the window somewhere along with the alarm clock.

(Don't worry; I'll pick it up later on. It's pretty indestructible. Plus, I think it needs to cool off, and the wet grass it landed on will surely do the trick).

There's a banana stuffed into my mouth when I bolt out of the door. I almost trip on the stairs (go figure) but manage to steady myself on the banister. Just as I'm about to open the main door, my neighbour, Mrs Wesley, calls down to me.

"Patricia! You be careful at the stables today!"

She also thinks I'm her granddaughter and this is Texas instead of Forks. But she's elderly and is always bringing me a vast assortment of cakes to "keep me strong", so I go with it.

FYI, I would have still rolled with it even if she didn't bring me delicious pastries.

I'm, like, a nice person.

OK?

OK.

"Always am!" Is always my response back.

My truck is awaiting me as I burst out into the heat. It sits there in the parking lot all red and rustic and old. And because of its uber-cool appearance, obviously super-fast engine, and just general awesome factor, it tends to get notices quite a bit. When this happens, I just roll down the window, lean out, and say to the hip young kids – "Hey, bro. See these wheels? Imported all the way from Italy – hot off the Ferrari itself. That's right – _the_, not _a._ See how much more impressive it makes them?"

Well, not really.

Maybe sometimes.

As it goes, I don't have time for such antics this morning.

I arrive at the office smelling like burnt rubber because I'm pretty sure I just singed my tires from the speed at which I was going.

"Swan!" Is the first thing I hear when I enter the building. I hold back a groan and close my eyes, trying to think of _happy thoughts_ before I turn around to face (unfortunately) my boss.

"James," I greet, somewhat civilly.

"You're late," he growls, looking down at his watch. "By _45 minutes_."

"Er, well, um," I say, as fluently as ever. "There was an, erm, family emergency."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's the third one this month."

_Fudge-fuddy-kins!_

"Thank you for keeping a score-card," I say, very seriously. "You must give it to me once you've complied the whole list of all my family's health issues, I'm sure they'll be so appreciative that you kept a record of their – possibly fatal – experiences." I pause. "Something to share at parties, maybe."

His eyes grow dark.

_Strudel!_ I think. _Tone down the sarcasm, Bella. You still want a job tomorrow, don't you?_

"Once more, Bella," he says, thrusting his finger in my face. His nails are dirty, _ew_. "And you're out, I swear to God."

This time, I keep my mouth firmly closed.

I flop onto my chair, dropping my head into my hands. I'm trying to summon up guilt over being late for the third time in the past month, but I can't do it. So instead, I garner guilt because I don't feel guilty.

I hate my job.

"Don't worry about James, he's just pissy because you won't sleep with him."

I don't look up.

"He's going to be pissy at me forever, then," I respond, voice muffled by the desk I'm trying to crawl my way into. "Which really sucks seeing as I think I'll be working here for the rest of my life."

"No, you won't," the voice soothes, "you'll retire first."

I lift my head up off the table and look up to see Bree perched on the edge of my desk – like a damn bird or something. I scowl at her. "Don't you have work to do, or something?"

She examines her fingernails closely. "Or something."

I huff. "Well, I have work to do, so . . ."

She doesn't even look away from her nails when she responds, "Sure, you do."

"Bree," I whine, pushing at her bony hip. "I can't afford any more screw-ups, and I think not working counts as a screw up."

"Oh, please," Bree scoffs, looking away from her nails finally. "As long as there is a cock in that man's pants, he's got a hard-on for you, and as long as he's got a hard-on for you, you're not going anywhere."

I cringe. "You're so vulgar."

She reaches forward to pat my cheeks. "And you're so virginal," she coos, and then bounds back to her own cubicle which is right across from my own.

I flush, and shoot her a death glare. She smiles innocently back at me before turning her attention to her computer. I sigh and do the same.

I like Bree, I really do, but she's like Woody the Woodpecker: I love that bird but _damn_ if its pecking doesn't get irritating every once in a while.

The day passes tediously – as is normal – and Bree invites me to the bar all the staff go to after work and I refuse – as is normal. But what is _not_ normal is the downpour outside that has me _soaked_ in the minutes it takes for me to bolt from the building to my truck.

Now my clothes are clinging to me in a _most_ uncomfortable and unflattering manner.

_Great._

I drive home – even slower than usual – because the torrential rain makes it difficult to see through. And I really don't want to hit a cat or a dog or Bambi or something.

There's a sudden flash of lighting in the sky, followed by a rumble of loud thunder.

I jump and yelp a little.

It's storming.

_Also great._

Squinting against the water streaming down the windshield, I find that the window wipers aren't very much help and so roll down my window a little to peer through the darkness. Finding the road clear ahead, I attempt to roll the window back up again but find it uncooperative – it's stuck.

The wind blows outside – rain rushes into the truck-bed and attacks my eyes.

_Have I mentioned? GREAT._

I splutter and a slew of _fudge this! _and_ fudge that's! _escape my mouth. With one hand on the wheel, I attempt to rub the water out of my eyes with the other.

It doesn't occur to me to stop the car because obviously:_ I'm an idiot._

When I manage to open my eyes properly, there's a blur of darkness that obscures the front of the road – _where I'm driving. _My eyes widen, but my reflexes are slow, and all I see before I hit the figure are two wide green eyes – staring at me in horror.


	2. 2: Victims, couches, kisses and nudity

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **xxDeadInsidexx** and **RobsTip** for reviewing! Feedback always makes me smile all goofy-like. ;)

Where did we leave off? Oh, yes. Bella's just hit someone with her oh-so-cool truck . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I take my almost-victim home, throw him on the couch, kiss his boo-boo, and get him naked.**

"_Holyapplefudgingstrudel!"_ I scream, before slamming the breaks down hard. The truck swerves to the right, flinging me halfway across the bed of the truck, but that's the least of my concerns right now. I unclasp my seat belt with shaking fingers all the while whispering _oh god, oh god, oh_ _god_ to myself.

I yank the door open and fling myself out into the torrential night. Unfortunately, I don't possess night vision and so that makes it difficult to see, fortunately, I don't trip – miraculously.

My headlights are almost shot, but they provide at least a bit of light so I'm able to see the body in front of my truck.

And it's most definitely _not_ Bambi.

I rush over to . . . the body (_oh, God, that sounds terrible!) _and drop down beside it . . . them; ignoring the stinging pain in my knees. I turn their face toward mine and for the first time I can see that it's a man.

"Oh, please wake up! Please, please, please. . . " I whisper in a rush, leaning my ear down against his chest to listen for any sign of a heartbeat. It seems a lifetime before I hear a distinct, _thump thump._

"Oh, thank God!" I croak-cry. "You're not dead! I didn't kill anyone!"

He makes a slight moaning sound causing me to shoot up and look at him wide-eyed – but nothing. His eyes are still closed, only now there's a small furrow between them –

His whole body starts jolting in a quick succession of shivers.

– and now he's going to freeze to death!

I start rambling; a series of _sorry's_ and _I'm so stupid_ and_ if you sue me all I can pay you in is pastries._

I do this as I attempt to get him upright – but he's a dead weight. I'm huffing and panting as if I've just run a marathon, and he's not fat – or doesn't seem it – by any means, but he's freaking _huge_ – at least seven or eight inches taller than me, and broader, too.

"If only my life ambition was to be the world's greatest female body-builder," I pant out in a panic as I attempt to navigate him toward my truck. _Think happy thoughts – your murder victims are still at zero. _"Then this would have been a _doddle_."

It's really too bad he's otherwise-occupied and can't appreciate my wit. Because if somebody doesn't start laughing soon, I'm pretty sure I'm going to cry.

By some miracle – probably the same miracle that kept me from falling over during the whole process – I manage to get him into my truck. He lays length ways – face up. There was absolutely no way he was staying upright, and to be honest, it would have been frightfully uncomfortable considering his head would have probably hit the ceiling.

I blast the heater on full and turn all the vents towards him as I open the driver's door. This is when I notice a problem: his head is where my butt needs to be.

Err . . .

"Right," I whisper to myself, "right."

Slowly and oh-so carefully, I lift his head slightly, at the same time sliding inch-by-inch into the truck. I close the door quietly once I'm fully in, and ease his head gently down onto my lap.

Looking down, I try to ignore the red trickle of blood pouring from his head – but it's really just one of those things that you simply _cannot_ ignore. So I panic, and hall-ass all the way home while trying not to cry because there is absolutely _nobody_ laughing.

**~o~**

I immediately dart out of the car once parked, to go and get my poor victim from the other side. I pull him out – huffing and panting etc. – until he practically _falls_ on top of me. I half drag, half-carry him to the lift that has a 50% chance of not working.

I hold my breath and try not to lose my grip on him as he starts to shake once more.

The _ding_ of the elevator has never sounded sweeter.

I fear I did cry then – just a little.

**~o~**

Once safely inside my apartment, I pull him over to the couch and immediately deposit him on it. His body naturally falls to the side, so I ease him down more gently and into a more comfortable position.

Once this is done, I dart all around and start turning on the heaters willy-nilly, and then move over to the fire – which is right in front of the couch – and light it up. The heat immediately hits my face – which has been frozen by fear.

I go back over to him and notice how his tremors continue. Frowning, I eye his soaking wet clothes and conclude I'm never going to get anywhere and he still might catch hypothermia if I don't remove them.

Take them off.

His clothes, that is.

Flustered, I wring my hands together for a minute.

I think we covered this earlier, but –

asexual?

Yeah, me.

I tell myself to man up before rushing to my bedroom and grabbing my duvet and bounding back into the living room. I set it down next to him as I move ever-closer.

My hands linger mid-air above him.

"I'm not about to violate you – on top of everything else, I swear to God," I whisper to him in a rush as I raise his body lightly to start pulling off his jacket.

I take off his socks and shoes, and then pull off his button down shirt and then finally his pants. I flush and avert my eyes as I do all of this, but the water clinging to his clothes has decided to cling to his skin, so they get stuck until I have to . . . look . . . a little.

I pull the duvet over him – my cheeks fire-engine red.

Once I'm sure that he's all covered and not in any immediate danger, I dart off to my room. I quickly pull off my wet clothes and haphazardly change into an oversized t-shirt and pyjama bottoms; all the while keeping a silent eye on the couch – the hair that peeks out from it.

When I enter the living room once more, I kneel down by his side and touch his cheek; it's warmer, much warmer, and it make me breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

And then I look at him. I mean, _really_ _look_ at him for the first time.

My appreciation for his flushed cheeks, sharp jaw, pouty lips and general overall _smouldering-type_ face has me second guessing my asexual status.

_Is it getting hot in here?_

_I guess it's a good thing I already took off all his clothes._

My eyes widen in horror once I notice the red splotch on his forehead; dribbled down his cheek – and I immediately feel terrible once again.

I dash away and am back again with my first aid kit. Yes, I have one of these; because I'm usually in need of, you know, a lot of first aid.

I clean up his cut, pushing down the queasy feeling in my stomach at the sight of the blood. I'm relieved to find that it's almost all dry, and there's no fresh blood oozing out. Once fully cleaned, I can see that the wound is not deep at all, and I am, once more, so very, very relieved.

I plaster him up.

I smooth away his hair.

I kiss his forehead.

And then I whisper, "All better."


	3. 3: Enjoying not following guidelines

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip**, **writtenbyabdex**, **sujari6**, **xxDeadInsidexx** and **seekerharmoney** for reviewing last chapter!

Where did we leave off? Oh, yes. Bella's getting all flustered about her nearly-naked-almost-victim on the couch . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . .** **my victim doesn't follow the assaulter/assaultee handbook.**

After making sure that all is well with my not-so-Bambi-assaultee, I dive onto the arm chair next to him. I check his pulse, feel his forehead and decide to settle in for the long haul.

I'm determined to watch over him for the rest of the night – figuring it's really the least I can do, considering the situation.

But soon, my early, tedious and nerve-killing day catches up to me, and before I know it, my eyelids are drooping; my blinks are becoming longer – slower.

I fall asleep.

**~o~**

My dreaming is odd.

Actually, the fact that I'm dreaming at all is odd. This doesn't happen to me very often.

Anyway, one moment I'm just happily floating along in the darkness I'm so accustomed to, when there's suddenly a surge of heat that blasts at the black and makes it wobble – like bad TV reception.

My mind shifts and shifts around, and just when I think it might settle back into the comfortable darkness once more, another bolt of heat strikes, this time much more saturated than the last.

Like little glass pieces, my darkness is shattered.

And I'm so, so _warm_.

I find myself actually enjoying this dream more than my habitual darkness, because secretly, I do sometimes like change. Not all the time but – it's sometimes interesting to experience the process, ya know.

So, I ride the wave of heat and static TV, and find I don't quite mind.

My head is warm . . . my neck is hot . . . my back and front and legs and feet and –

There's a sigh.

A noise.

It touches my collarbones.

Heats them _maddeningly_.

And.

I.

Just.

Freeze.

Not literally – because I'm burning up – but _literally_ because my body pauses, as if suspended in time.

It occurs to me that I would be unable to be so conscious – if I was say – dreaming.

I have come to the conclusion that I am, in fact: not dreaming.

"Oh my God," I whisper, at the same time I tear my eyes open.

And it really is, _Oh my God._

I come face-to-face and feel-to-feel, with warmth and movement and apple scent. I take a breath; my nose pressed up against a kind of nice heat. It feels like I'm drowning – the air is humid – but not uncomfortably so.

I inhale the warmth and it's all apple strudel smell, and I think it may be enough to lull be back into sleep – or make my stomach growl with hunger.

Then there's more movement.

And I really can't ignore that.

I stiffen at the feel of hands on my back, and legs on my legs. Since I know I only own one pair of each, I deduce that the extra appendages are not mine.

"OK," I breathe to myself, "OK, OK . . . " As coherency comes back to me, I remember the day passed in flashes. I hold back a groan as I recall James, a flinch at Alice's vulgarity, and finally, a deep shiver of horror at hitting the man with my car.

_Just another the day in the life of the ever-fascinating Bella Swan._

Not really.

My life is not very fascinating.

Speaking of . . .

Said man lets out a noise – something like a groan or a keening sound (I have fathomed that it can only be "the man" whom I'm so kindly being heated by because, well, sometimes I have common sense, and sometimes I use it), and I feel my insides freeze in panic.

_I know I hurt him – shoot. But how badly?_

Swallowing, I attempt to lift my head upwards a little so I can see his face, because currently, all I can see is _skin, skin, skin_ and _chest, chest, chest. _

He is _quite_ chesty.

I'm at a loss as to how I came to be this way. Last thing I remember was dozing in the arm chair and now – well. Now I'm horizontal on the couch with him?

This is definitely _not_ in the assaulter/assaultee handbook.

My, _What Not to Do with Your Couch Victim – guide for Dummies _is lying around here somewhere, I'm sure.

When I finally manage to turn my head up, I lean back slightly so I can see his face; he's asleep. Stealthily, I try to untangle myself from the pretzel we've found ourselves in. But it proves to be of no use, his arms must be made of steel or something, because they just won't shift – no matter how much I tug.

I grow irritated and flustered and hot; this was not how I imagined my day going.

I didn't imagine it happening at all, _period_.

Gritting my teeth, my hands slither down to _his_ hands and fingers, which are interlocked at the middle of my back; his skin is touching mine from where my shirt has ridden up. I try to pry his fingers apart one-by-one, and I think I might be accomplishing _something_ when he lets out a sigh, and in a movement so quick that, if I wasn't affected by it, I'm sure I would have questioned its happening at all.

I'm airborne for a split second before my breath is whooshing out of me in a gasp as I'm flipped over, and suddenly I'm on my back. I stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed, before feeling a solid weight settle on my stomach. I look down.

His _head_ his now on my _belly_.

And you know what?

His eyes are still closed.

My hands twitch at my sides, his twitch underneath my back. I ball them up into fists and turn absolutely tomato red when he . . . _nuzzles_ into my stomach.

There's really no other word for it.

Well, maybe cuddle or snuggle or –

I'll just stop right there.

Peering down at his wild hair lurking softly on my torso, I sigh. His head is a warm weight – but not so heavy that it's uncomfortable, just . . . right. I can feel his breath seeping through the soft cotton of my t-shirt and sinking into my skin. His hands beneath my back are locked around me so tightly, and his chest reclining on my legs makes me feel . . . safe? Like I'm steady, stable – _secure_.

I sigh again, because I've never been held like this – never been held at all, really.

Sometimes, at night, when I lay in my bed - I'll curl up tight because it always feels too big for me - and I'll wrap the duvet around me even if it's boiling outside; just to pretend to know what the heat of somebody else feels like.

And you know what?

It feels kind of nice.


	4. 4: Soft skin and pretty backs

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip**, **sujari6**, **xxDeadInsidexx**, **seekerharmoney**,** mounds01**,** bella-edward-love **and** Sky and Sea** for reviewing last chapter!

Where we left off: Bella getting sweet on her sleeping assaultee . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I wash my victim, give him a nick-name – all before he wakes up and forgets.**

I'm woken up by birds singing, which is a delightful change to my sometimes-working-screeching alarm clock.

I slowly open my well-slept eyes, blinking up at my white ceiling for some moments. I am utterly comfortable, relaxed and at-ease, so it seems silly to rush any pace of any sort today. I simply lie there, in a bubble of peace.

I bring my hands up to rub at my eyes before relaxing them again, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to rest them in the hair entangled on my stomach and –

I look down.

Nearly jump out of my skin.

Oh. Yeah.

My memory seriously needs to buck the fudge up.

I peer back down.

I go ahead and run my hands through his hair anyway.

What? Don't judge me.

It looked . . . soft.

For the record: it _feels_ soft, too.

I might sigh.

That is, until my finger catches a knot in his hair. I rise up slightly and cringe a little. There's dried blood sticking some of the strands together, and my happy mood drops instantly. _Fricking strudel! Why didn't I just take him to the hospital?_

Because: A) I hate hospitals; which is so very _ironic_ considering my penchant for injuries.

And: B) The nearest hospital is 2 hours away – on a good day. There was absolutely no way I was getting there in the rain last night. And also, I was worried that my poor victim might be dead by then, and I really didn't want him to die. I'm a good person like that.

Lightly touching his ear, I realise that I should probably stop calling him 'victim'. It just gives off the wrong sort of vibe.

He shifts under my ministrations causing me to suck in and hold my breath. I have yet to think of a game-plan for when he wakes up, and now, realising that he could legitimately _wake up_ any second, I decide I really, really need to –

"No," he mumbles against my stomach, unknowingly cutting off my soon-to-be-hyperventilating thought process. "Don't want to." A furrow forms between his eyebrows, and I stare down at him, holding my breath so my stomach doesn't move so I don't wake him up.

_Oh God,_ I think in mortification. _I kidnapped him, didn't I? Did I kidnap him?_

Someone really needs to tell me to get a _hold_ of myself.

His nose nudges against my stomach and I fight the urge to squirm because it tickles. He keeps on burrowing, like a mole or something, and I find it's impossible for me to mind when he's so passed-out on account of me hitting him with my car.

_Poor mole_, I think; touching the little gash on the side of his face that I hadn't noticed before.

"You'll be alright," I whisper to his unconscious form, trying to assure myself that he really _would_. "As soon as you wake up, I'll take you to the hospital and you can call someone to . . . "

I trail off, wondering if I should wake him up . . . maybe I shouldn't have let him fall asleep at all . . . what if he has a concussion or has slipped into a coma that he'll never awaken from . . . ?

. . .

. . .

_Bella_, my rational side says_, you've been watching waaaay too much daytime television._

_Plus_, she adds, ever helpful, _he just spoke,_ _you noob._

Right. He did, didn't he?

_That's what I said._

I sigh; relieved. I lift my hand carefully from his hair to look at my watch. I do a double-take when I see it's 10 AM, and a momentary shot of panic shoots through me as I think of my job, and more specifically, James.

And then I realise it's Saturday, and almost cry in relief.

Something about my emotions being all over the place.

Whatever.

I would blame PMS but –

I'm not, so –

I blame the pretty and warm mole nestled on my stomach.

I think 'mole' may be a slight improvement on 'victim'. It doesn't carry so many morbid attachments.

"Not yet," my little cling-on sighs, "five more minutes . . . " I smile in spite of myself; his voice is soft and low and husky, and it sends vibrations along my skin.

I lie there for a little while longer – it could be minutes but it feels like hours. I don't want to move – it's warm and comfortable – but I know I must. The heating has been on all night, and I'm starting to sweat – he is, too. And I sincerely feel bad about making him feel sweaty; it's not nice, you know? Plus, I think he's had all the Bella-treatment he can take right now. Poor thing will probably run a mile once he wakes up.

Strangely, the thought makes me sad and my face dips down into a frown. I try to shake the feeling off. I don't know this man, it shouldn't matter to me what he does, or where he goes.

This time when I try to escape his hold, he is much slacker. I manage to loosen his fingers from my back and gently pull them apart. While manoeuvring from out underneath him, I quickly slither a pillow under his face as a substitute for my stomach. He stirs a little, but otherwise remains dead to the world.

Letting out a little puff of relief, I quietly make my way around the room; turning off the heaters as I go. I put the fire on low and move the blanket so it only covers his bottom half; his back is sweaty but his feet are still a little chilly.

I wash my face and brush my teeth quickly before I return with another wash cloth and a bowl full of luke-warm water. I kneel by his side; his face turned toward me on the pillow. I stare at his flushed cheeks probably a little _too_ long before dipping the cloth into the water and bringing it to his face – hesitatingly.

I dab his warm cheeks and swipe down his nose. I wet his lips and brush it across his forehead. I wring the cloth out and dip it in the water again before moving onto the wound – and the dried blood.

I rub the cloth gently and thread it slowly through the strands of his hair. My brow is furrowed as I work, and only once I'm satisfied do I look down at the bowl of water.

It's a milky pink.

I pale.

Nonetheless I soldier on, re-plaster his wound and empty the red water down the sink – shuddering lightly as I do so.

I return again with fresh water and a clean cloth. This time, I run it slowly across his back; wiping away sweat and replacing it with clean, cool water. He sighs in his sleep and my lips tug up into a small smile.

I do the same for his arms and shoulders . . . I decide to leave his bottom half firmly _alone_, and I'm not going to risk turning him over – if I even _could_ turn him over.

I sigh, leaning back on one hand, my eyes absently running over the lines and curves of his back.

He has a pretty back.

I run the wet cloth down his jaw and across his neck – of what I can reach. My fingertips brush his skin in the process; _soft_.

"Hmm," he hums, eyes still closed, and I decide I like Mole.

I drop the cloth back into the bowl full of water, instead now settling for running my fingers along his skin. I'm _fascinated_. It's so smooth; soft. I'd always expected a man's skin to feel rough, rugged – his is the opposite. I think I might like it.

I let my hand rest on his lower back, feeling it rise and fall as he breathes; _in, out, in, out, in, out . . ._

I'm so focused that I don't notice a disruption in the pattern, and –

"Hello?"

My eyes immediately dart up to his face at the same time I snatch my hand away from his skin as if I'd been burned. I flush heavily; redness coating my skin like a sticky shower of cherry juice.

His eyes are hooded; half closed, but open enough so that I can see a startlingly deep green staring back at me.

"I, uh," I stutter, standing up and stumbling back away from him.

He blinks heavily, going to run his hand through his hair but wincing when he comes across the wound I had inadvertently given him.

I cringe.

He swallows, like his throat is dry, and croaks out, "Where am I? Who are you?"

I come to a stop when my back hits the wall. "Well," I hesitate. "You're in my . . . home, and I'm . . . " I catch my breath – _I'm, what? The woman who almost killed you?_

"I'm Bella," I settle for.

He nods, attempting to raise himself into a sitting position. I go forward to help him, but pause in my steps, figuring it's safer here by the wall. So I watch as his arms shake as he heaves himself up and settles his back against the couch. He lets out a heavy sigh, reaching up to rub at his eyes.

_Aw, sleepy Mole . . . _

I shake my head at myself.

"Bella," he croaks out, "it's nice to meet you."

With widened eyes, I don't reply. _It's nice to meet you? Really? _I don't have much expertise in this area, but I didn't think this is how things went down – at all. I figured maybe a lawsuit or something of that kind, but no – _it's nice to meet you?_

And then to top off this whole twilight-zone situation, he whispers, "And who am I?"


	5. 5: More than just confusion

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip**, **xxDeadInsidexx**, **sujari6**,** bella-edward-love **and** Sky and Sea** for reviewing last chapter!

Where we left off: Bella's been dropped into the twilight zone . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . my victim's forgetfulness is more than just a momentary bout of confusion.**

_And then to top off this whole twilight-zone situation, he whispers, "And who am I?"_

I freeze with my back against the wall, my eyes wide like saucers.

"W-what do you mean?" I stutter, but a pall of dread has started to settle over me as I look at the plaster on his head. Something is _very_ wrong and there's no doubt that I'm the cause of it.

He looks at me; wide green eyes splashed with fear. "I . . . I don't . . . " he stammers, bringing a hand up to tug harshly at his hair. "Why can't I . . . " he trails off, abruptly slumping back into the sofa and letting out a pained groan.

I immediately spring into action, leaving my wall-spot and darting over to his side. I go to touch his shoulder, but hesitate. "Are you alright?" I ask, softly.

He tugs at his hair again, his palm rubbing against his scalp. "My head feels like it's been rammed against a brick wall," he moans, dropping his chin into his chest.

I wince_. If only he knew . . ._

"I'm sorry," I whisper, this time slithering into the spot next to him on the couch, feeling rightly _awful_. I let my hand touch his shoulder before moving it up into his hair, and to the hand that grips the strands so tightly. I work on loosening his hold, replacing his hand with mine once I do so, and gently rubbing his head – like I can somehow make the pain disappear.

Silence ensues for some time before my hand pauses in his hair. "I'll get you some ice," I whisper, "and some tylenol."

He doesn't respond, so I retrieve my hand from my hair and quickly rush into my kitchen. I get a glass – fill it with water – and the tablets from the cupboard, and then get some ice from the freezer – wrapping it in a towel securely – before making my way back to the living room.

He's in the same position as he was before, bent over with his chest heaving slightly. I think_, poor Mole._

I walk carefully over to his side this time – because I'm holding things, and, well, I think he's been injured by me enough – and settle next to him again. I hand him the pill with a quiet _here you go_, and he swallows it diligently with the water.

I tie the towel tight – just to make sure the ice doesn't fall out and he doesn't catch hypothermia and die (I don't want him to die) – and hesitate again. "Can you lean back?" I ask, in a hushed whisper. If his head is hurting, then I reason it's best to be as quiet as possible.

He follows my request silently, unfurling his body and leaning back. Slowly, I bring the cold towel to his forehead and press it into his skin. He hisses immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whisper again, wincing for him. I press it onto the plaster lightly, and then just generally all around his head. Gradually, he starts to relax, and as he does, so do I.

When I'm pushing it on his forehead, I startle slightly as I catch his eyes open – and watching me. Up until now, they had been closed. I flush, my eyes darting back and forth between his skin and his eyes. "Can I get you something?" I whisper, flustered.

He doesn't answer, just continues to watch me. I grow increasingly nervous; his eyes are soft and open, and I'm almost certain no one's ever looked at me this way before.

"Are you my . . . wife, Bella?"

I gape.

I almost drop the towel.

_Oh my God._

_Oh my God._

_Oh my God!_

"I . . . " I swallow harshly, as his eyes continue to survey my face. "Why would you ask me that?"

He gives a little shrug. "I'm in your home," he says, lifting a hand to motion all around. "I'm . . ." he looks down at himself, " . . . naked," he says, looking up at me. Heat creeps up my neck _– you've still got underwear on!_ I think in desperation, _and I didn't look!_

"And you're taking care of me," he finishes with another little shrug, letting his eyes drift back to my face.

"Oh," I utter, because when he says it like that it really _does_ sound . . . well, different to how it _actually_ is. "Despite all that . . . n-no, I'm not your . . . _wife_."

And then it's his turn to utter, _"oh,"_ and I think I must imagine the momentary look of sadness on his face. "So . . . who are you then?"

I stumble and trip over my words – not really wanting to say. Instead I ask, "You really . . . you really don't remember . . . anything?" Which seems infinitely more important right now than the identification of my person.

The look of panic returns to his eyes and I want to kick myself for unsettling him. "No," he chokes out, "there's . . . nothing. Everything is just so . . . blank." He winces as I run the cloth over what appears to be an especially sore spot, and I retreat quickly. "What happened to me?" He asks, pained. "Why don't I know who I am – who you are?"

"Oh, God," I whisper, staring at him with wide-eyes. "It sounds like you have . . . " I trail off. "Oh, _God_." I choke out.

I hit him with my truck.

I broke his brain.

And now I think he has . . . amnesia.

Oh, _God_.

I pull the towel away from his forehead and set it on the table. "I really need to get you to the hospital," I say, panicked. I stand up and stand in front of him, looking down at him – he looks up at me; eyes wide and pleading. "I'm really sorry," I whisper, before darting off to my room in an attempt to find something for him to wear (his clothes from yesterday are still wet).

I riffle through my drawers with an ever increasing panic swelling in my gut. It's much more serious that I originally thought. Earlier, I figured he might just have been a little confused – I _had_ run him over, after all – but it's more than just confusion – it's a freaking loss of _identity_.

"I'm going to hell," I utter in a shrill whisper, continuing my rampage.

Finally, I find some clothes of Charlie's I'd "borrowed" from him from when I'd lived with him for a couple of years. I grab a pair of sweat pants and a long sleeved t-shirt.

When I swivel around, I almost have a heart attack.

My almost-victim stands in the doorway to my room, looking utterly and adorably _confused_.

I rush over to him, pushing the clothes into his chest. "Here," I say, quickly. "Put these on." When he continues to stand there, blinking down at me, I think, _unsure Mole._

I lean up and gently remove a sock from his hair – which no doubt had landed there when I'd been throwing things everywhere – and a bra from his shoulder. I flush as I quickly fling the offending item away from him, but he doesn't seem to notice, and for that I'm glad.

I take his hand and pull him into the living room once again. I hand him the bottoms. "Put these on," I say, more gently this time. He complies without questioning my request, and I look away, blushing, as I see the muscles in his thighs move.

Once he's done, I tell him to "lean down" quietly, and he does. I still have to stand up on my tip-toes to reach though. I slide the shirt over his head gently, making sure to be careful as to not knock him in anyway. He pushes his arms into the sleeves, and I pull the front down, my fingers lightly touching his abdominals on the way down – he shudders lightly.

He has one of those 'v' shapes between his hips.

I sigh.

Tearing my eyes away, I dart over toward the heater and hand him his almost-dry shoes. He looks at them for a moment before he slips them onto his feet. He stands there, in the middle of my living room, looking a mixture of sleepy, uncomfortable, pained and confused.

I vow to be more careful on the roads in the future.

I really am _terrible_ at looking after people.

* * *

**A/N:** N'aw, who wants to give Amnesiaward a hug? :')


	6. 6: Getting handsy and surprises

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip**, **mounds01**, **sujari6**,** bella-edward-love, Sky and Sea, Jasperslittlesnack17, LaVonne Cullen, Brit, seekerharmoney**, and an **anon** for reviewing last chapter!

Where we left off: Bella's realised some things and now they're off on their travels in that *lucky* red truck . . .

* * *

Edward, who?**  
**

**The One Where . . . we make a little trip and discover _lots_ of surprises.**

We approach a red light, and I pause the truck; looking across at my passenger nervously. He's been sitting in silence for the past half-hour – just staring out of the window. Every time I've tried to open my mouth to engage him in some sort of conversation, I freeze up – he'll sigh or shudder or wince – and I'll shrink back; feeling absolutely miniscule and scum-like.

Plus, I'm kind of thinking that my ramble will only worsen the situation.

Positive, in fact.

So, I keep my mouth firmly closed; figuring not blurting out something stupid is infinitely better than blurting out something stupid.

He's probably traumatised already.

Scarred.

Ruined for life.

. . .

. . .

_I'm so going to hell._

**~o~**

Another half-hour passes in a similar fashion as the first. And I think there's no possible way I can spend another 60 minutes in this charged silence – it's setting me on edge, which is really not very good when I'm behind the wheel.

Said passenger knows that from experience.

Only he doesn't know he knows.

But I know he knows; he just forgot that he, too, knows.

After glancing over at him worriedly for the umpteenth time, my eyes catch on a little white . . . thing, sticking out from under his leg. Upon closer inspection, I can see it's a piece of paper.

"Hey," I say softly, glad to have a legitimate reason for talking to him – _finally_. To my surprise, his head immediately swivels around to face me. He looks at me with big green eyes – as wide as the moon – and I almost swerve from looking into them.

_Focus Bella,_ I scold myself.

"I, um," I cough, attempting to distract him and myself from the blush rising into my cheeks. "That piece of paper," I say, nodding to it. "Could you pass it to me – please?"

I look away to focus back on the road ahead of me – it's clear, thank God, or I'm sure I would have had somebody else's lack-of-self-awareness on my conscience – but I can still feel the heat of his gaze on my face.

When he looks away, I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. He really is too pretty for . . . anyone's own good.

His hand appears in my line of vision. "Oh, thanks," I say, and then spot a little burrow-type ditch kind of thing. "Let me just . . . " I mutter, and then slowly ease my truck into it – rationalising that I really better _pull over_ this time.

Once I have the keys firmly and completely out of the ignition, I turn to him and reach my hand out. My fingers brush his as I take it from him and a little spark shoots up my arm – making me jump. I notice him flinch. "Sorry," I apologise quietly, avoiding his eyes. "Must be static . . . " I trail off as my eyes take in black-biro ink. It reads;

_Edward,_

_047383652733_

_Call me._

_X_

I hold back a snort.

Number's on notes? – People still do these?

Puh-lease.

And then I realise I'm being mean, and, it's not like anyone's ever given _me_ a number on a note.

Cue the frown.

Oh, great.

Don't get depressed, Bella.

There's no Ben and Jerry's around.

Right.

I sober up.

"Edward," I say, out loud, looking up to see if this has any effect on the 'Edward' in question.

He looks back at me blankly.

Guess not.

I look back down at the note, taking in its slightly damp white and curling corners, its running biro and general overall grimy appearance – this probably fell out of his pocket last night when he was all horizontal in my truck.

Hmm . . .

_Fudging hell._ When did I turn into such a . . . a . . .

. . . non asexual?

I blame Mole – I mean, Edward.

Assuming that is his name

And this _is_ his note.

"Edward," I say again, looking back up at him. I test it in my mouth – and I think I like it. "You're Edward," I say, more confidently than I feel, because I think it's important that he at least has this one thing – this one thing to ground him.

"I am?" he asks, eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree. I nod, and he smiles all bright and brilliant. He looks down briefly, mouthing his name slightly to himself before peering back up at me from beneath midnight lashes. "And you're Bella."

I nod again, smiling.

"But not my wife," he continues, watching my reaction.

My eyes widen. "No . . . "

"But not my . . . sister, or something, right?" he asks, visibly paling.

I choke on a laugh. "No, definitely not."

He relaxes into his seat at that, seemingly satisfied. "OK," he says, looking back out his window." OK . . . " I want to tell him he's stealing my line, but the smile I catch on his face in the reflection on the glass makes my throat go tight, and I start the truck up again without another word.

His smile?

It's as wide as the moon.

**~o~**

We pull up at the hospital approximately an hour later. I look over to Edward as I pull the key out of the ignition, noticing he's still staring out of the window – as if in a daze.

"Edward?" I call quietly, and when he doesn't respond, I hesitantly touch his shoulder.

He jumps.

Like, about a metre in the air.

I jump back in response.

I just _love_ how we communicate like this.

"Sorry," I whisper, breathless from my hurried heartbeat. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

He looks a bit breathless himself when he responds, "No, it's okay," he says, and when I think he'll say more – he doesn't.

"What's wrong?" I ask, because he looks as worried as anything.

He starts messing with his fingers, before lifting a hand to run it through his hair (a habit which I think may have been present in his remembered-life) before wincing when he realises that's where he's hurt.

I wince, too.

His pain hurts me – knowing I'm the sole cause of it.

I lift my own hand slowly and gently retrieve his from his hair. His eyes move to mine, and I'm surprised to notice they're a bit watery.

I shouldn't be, really. I do a terrible job at caring for people.

"Hey," I whisper – it's practically a _coo_. "You can tell me what's wrong. Are you hurting much?" I ask, panic quickly grasping my stomach. He shakes his head, probably seeing I was about to go all crazy on him.

"No, Bella," he says, in the same quiet whisper, "well, it does hurt a little, but that's not . . . not what's wrong, really." I can tell he's trying to assure me, and that makes me want to _cry_ because the roles should be the other way around.

Crying would do absolutely _nothing_ for my role.

He doesn't speak for a couple of minutes, so I just wait, patiently, stroking back copper strands from his forehead softly – I never realised I was so handsy.

He sighs. "It's just . . . " His hand reaches up to touch mine in his hair. "Are you going to leave now?"

I gape, horrified. "Of course not!" As if I could leave my amnesia-victim to fend for himself! _Lord, if I ever do that you have my permission to, TAKE ME NOW._

As previously mentioned, I'm, like, a nice person.

His shoulders droop – is it egotistical for me to think – in relief?

Probably.

Nevertheless, he grasps my hand entangled in his pretty – slightly curly – locks and whispers a, "thank you."

My heart might just melt a little.

**~o~**

Jacob meets me at the entrance to the hospital – I called him before I left with Edward.

"Belly-Bean!" He shouts, before scooping me up into a bone-crushing hug.

"Jake," I wheeze out in response.

Ladies and Gentlemen: meet Jacob Black – qualified Doctor specialising in things I can't pronounce.

He's also been my best friend since I was born – practically. We used to make mud pies together when we were little.

He's big – larger than life itself – with shiny black hair and dark, almost russet skin.

And best of all?

He's gay.

My comfort-zone around none gay men is at zero.

At least with Jake, I know he's only got pure and beautiful and innocent thoughts about me.

My body may as well be a potato.

He's _that_ interested in it.

"Can't . . . breathe . . . !" I manage to choke out.

"Whoopsie," Is his way of an apology as he settles me back down on the ground.

I cough; give him the stink-eye.

"You have something for me?" he asks, raising a brow, referring to my impromptu phone call this morning saying I _really needed_ _his help_ and _only he could help me._

I look behind me, noting Edward lagging behind slightly; his face tipped down toward the ground.

I frown.

I ignore Jake for the time being and jog – _always dangerous_ – out to Edward. Once I reach him, I grab his hand and thread his fingers through mine. I'm short enough so that I can see his face – lowered as it is. "Come on," I tell him gently. "I'm not going anywhere – I promise."

He nods; gives me a faint smile.

I smile back before tugging him, and we start walking toward Jake together.

Jake is eyeing us curiously as we approach. I let out a breath before sucking a deep one in.

"Jake, this is – "

"Holy shit!"

I look toward Jake, alarmed, and then at Edward, noticing he's picked up his head and is now staring at Jake with a similar expression to mine.

"What?" I ask, panicked. "What's wrong?"

He continues to stare, mouth gaping.

I furrow my brow, I tell Edward _one second,_ before marching Jake a couple a feet away.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" I hiss-whisper. "You're scaring him!"

"Jesus, Bella," he croaks, tugging his arm from the tight grip I had on him. "Do you know who that _is?"_

"Well," I say, slowly. "That's sort of why I – "

He cuts me off. "That's . . . whatshisname –" he clicks his fingers rapidly, like he's trying to remember something, and then, "– Edward!"

I look back at him like, _duh_. I know that . . . but how does –

"The President's _son_!"

_Holy._

_Effing.  
_

_Fudge.  
_

* * *

**A/N:** *hides* Did we see that coming? Did we not?_  
_


	7. 7: Technicalities and realisations

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip**, **mounds01**, **Sky and Sea, LaVonne Cullen, **and** seekerharmoney** for reviewing last chapter!

I apologise for not updating yesterday! So they'll be (lucky for you) two updates today! Expect the next one around 9 – 10 PM UK time (which is BST right now (summer) I believe, and GMT in the winter).

p.s. I'm so glad the ending to last chapter was a surprise to you all. ;)

Where we left off: Bella made a shocking discovery . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . things get technical and there's really only one thing to do.**

I sat in the packed waiting room numbly; staring down the hallway with unseeing eyes and barely feeling the toddler mercilessly kicking the back of my seat.

I hit the President's son with my truck.

I possibly gave the President's son amnesia.

_Lord, please let me make this better before you send me to hell – where I just know there's a special place for me._

After Jake had unloaded that oh-so-sweet revelation on me, I'd stood staring at him – gaping, as he had done moments before – until he demanded to know what the hell was going on, why exactly I had him with me, and why, on God's green Earth, was he wearing that particular sports shirt.

Like that was _so_ relevant at the moment.

I promised I'd tell him everything after he looked at Edward; I had to know he was OK.

Well . . . as OK as he could be . . . given the situation.

Jake had agreed – most likely seeing the desperation in my eyes – and we'd walked back over to Edward . . . who just also happened to be the President of the United States _son_.

It was hard not to look at someone with new eyes once you hear something like that.

Edward was hesitant to leave me, but I assured him I'd be right here in the waiting room – I wouldn't leave without him.

It saddened me to see the pain in his eyes when he walked down the hallway with Jake. He really thought I'd just ditch him.

Sighing, I realise I'm already in too deep.

The ticking of the second hand coming from the clock on the wall seems to rise above the bubble of noise in the waiting area. Kids screams are tuned out, their parents' hushes are drowned in the lull, and all there is is that tick, tick, tick that threatens to drive me absolutely _insane_. I feel like it's taking too long – that something disastrous has occurred. And I'm _this_ close to jumping up out of my seat and bolting down the hallway to find Jake and Edward.

But then said Jacob is coming down the hallway, and I immediately jump up out of my seat – mouth open prepared to ask a series of questions when he holds up his palm.

The words die on my throat.

"Can you come with me, Bella?" he asks, quietly. "He's asking for you."

I nod, wordlessly.

We walk down the hallway in absolute quiet before coming to a pause in front of a closed door.

"What wrong with him, Jake?" I ask in a whisper, fearing the answer but fearing I already know.

He looks down at me steadily. "He has amnesia."

I had already suspected this, but my heart drops into my stomach nonetheless. "Is it . . . " I let out a puff of breath. " . . . permanent?"

"I'll tell you together," he says, nodding to the door. "But first, you need to tell me how all of this happened."

"Well . . . " I say, hesitantly, and then just dive into the whole story – not missing out any detail. I'm breathless by the time I'm finished, seeing him look down at me with wide-eyes that I'm certain mirror my own.

"Oh . . . " he breathes out, "that's some serious shit."

I nod solemnly. "It's a cluster-fudge."

He shakes his head after a moment. "And he doesn't know you're the one who hit him?"

"No," I cringe. "It's not something I've been too eager to tell him."

"Understandable," he says, nodding his head. "He hasn't asked who _you_ are yet?"

"Well," I stammer, blushing. "He kind-of asked me if I was his . . . " I lower my voice. " . . . wife."

His eyes grow huge, and his lips twitch.

"Don't you dare," I warn.

He composes himself after a couple of minutes, and his hand is on the door when he abruptly freezes, turns to me once more and asks, "But he hasn't gone beyond that?"

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he says, tapping his chin. "It just seems to me that, if I woke up and had no recollection of, well, _anything_ . . . then I'd want to know who this person . . . " he makes a motion towards me. " . . . was, who was looking after me."

I think over his words, and realise that Edward hasn't pushed the issue of my identity. He'd asked me if I was his wife, and when I'd told him no, he hadn't asked specifically who I was . . . and then, in the car, he'd asked me if I was his sister_ – or something_, and when again I'd said no . . . he hadn't asked who I exactly was then, either.

"Strange," Jake says, mirroring my thoughts.

"It is," I murmur back. "I wonder why he hasn't asked . . . " I trail off, feeling strangely _hurt_ he doesn't want to know who I am.

I try to shake the feeling off – if anybody has the right to feel hurt it's the man in that room.

Jake squeezes my shoulder gently. "It'll be okay, Bells," he says, soothingly.

"Sure, it will," I reply, plastering a false smile onto my face.

Of course he sees right through it, but he doesn't say a word, instead twisting the door handle open.

I take a deep breath in, and release it before I step into the room after Jake.

Edward is sitting on a hospital bed – looking highly uncomfortable – and alternating between tugging on his hair, pulling on a loose thread on the sweatpants and running his hands down his face. His eyes dart all around the room, settling on Jake momentarily when he comes through the open door, and then me when I step out from behind Jacob's bulking figure.

"Hey," I say softly, awkwardly waving at him from across the room. I'm hesitant to go any closer until he gives me a sign he wants me to.

"Bella," he whispers back, his shoulders drooping and his twitching coming to a halt. "You're still here."

My heart pangs. "Of course I am," I say, fighting back tears. I slowly make my way towards him until I stand in front of him. I grasp his hand in between both of mine. "I said I would be."

His wide green eyes stare up at my muddy ones – so grateful and kind.

My stomach churns. I think he wouldn't be looking at me like that if he knew _I_ was the reason he was like this right now.

Jacob clearing his throat knocks us out of our staring contest, and my face heats as I move from the front of Edward to stand to the side of him. His eyes follow my movements, and I shoot him a small smile, to which he responds with one of his own.

I don't let go of his hand.

I turn toward Jacob; he has a clipboard in his hand. He rolls toward us on his chair, coming to halt a bit away. "Edward," Jacob says, and his head snaps up in Jacob's direction. "I've looked at your scans, and they suggest that you have a type of amnesia, specifically, Retrograde amnesia."

Edward and I blink back at him.

"Retrograde amnesia," he expands, most likely at seeing our bewildered looks. "Is a loss of access to events that have occurred, or information that was learned, before an injury or the onset of a disease." He pauses, letting us take this all in.

"Is it permanent?" Edward asks, quietly.

"In some cases, yes," Jacob replies, "but not in yours. You have _temporally graded_ retrograde amnesia, basically, your personality remains the same as it was previous and your semantic memory – that is general knowledge about the world – is unaffected. However, your episodic memory, which refers to your life experiences, is impaired."

"Your memory won't be gained back like how you see it portrayed in movies – like reminders; telling you about your past experiences and identity won't help any." I almost breathe a sigh of relief at that, and then mentally scold myself afterwards. "It usually happens via spontaneous recovery. And it's exactly how it sounds – your memory will return spontaneously and without warning. There's no telling how long the tissues that have been damaged will take to heal, but it will happen gradually and without any help, and then once the process is finished – " he pauses, clicks his fingers. " – there's your memory back again."

Edward nods, while I'm reeling taking this all in. It's not permanent – _thank God_ – but there's no way to predict when he'll remember. My mind churns over what to do now – he has no memory of being the President's son, but he still _is_. And what happens when it becomes obvious that he's _missing_?

What was he even doing in Forks? On his own – I'm assuming – without security or something? What if nobody knows where he is? Do I tell someone? Who would I tell? I can't just take him back to the Whitehouse and say, _"hey! I've got your son here. I accidently ran him over with my truck when it was raining real heavy – should've pulled over really, but apparently safety isn't my style – anyway, he hit his head and now he has amnesia and doesn't know who he is. Oh, but don't worry – it's only temporary – only we don't know when he'll remember."_

Yeah, I don't think so.

They'd probably assassinate me – or something.

And I know my life isn't exactly fascinating, but I'm quite attached to it nonetheless.

Edward's soft, slightly panic-lit voice pulls me out of my head. "Where do I go in the mean time?" he asks Jake, his palm growing damp as he squeezes my hand.

Jacob opens his mouth to respond, but I'm already speaking before I've thought about the words.

"You can stay with me."


	8. 8: Unanswered questions and arrangements

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Jasperslittlesnack17**, **Sky and Sea, ****seekerharmoney, xxDeadInsidexx, BloodOnTheDanceFloor14 **and two** Guest's** for reviewing last chapter! You guys make me smile/giggle/swoon. :)

Here's the second update for today (an hour earlier than I said it'd be here, I spoil you!) ~ please enjoy it! I love hearing your thoughts. :)

Where we left off: Bella's about to gain a new roomie . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . unanswered questions go unanswered and arrangements are made. **

"You can stay with me."

After I've blurted that out, there's complete and utter silence for about 60 seconds. Jake turns to look at me; Edward turns to look at me – both with differing expressions, but both with the ability to incite unease within me.

Jacob is surprised, disbelieving and shocked – years and years of knowing him have made me able to read his facial expressions as easy as going through the alphabet.

Edward, though . . . Edward's expression is unreadable.

This is more unsettling than Jake's – which evokes a sense of terror at the idea of doing the wrong thing. Edward's doesn't give me any idea how I'm being received, which is awful because he's the one in this whole situation that really _matters_.

I swallow against a dry throat and pray to _God_ this is the right thing. It feels like it is – deep within my gut – it feels right. I hurt him, so I look after him until he's fixed.

Right?

Right.

"I think that may be a little – "

"OK. Yes."

My eyes are wide as they flicker between my best friend and almost-victim. In turn, they look at each other as they speak over one another.

Stares are exchanged, thoughts are shared.

Then the decision is decided when Edward turns to me and says, "I want to stay with you."

After all, he's the one who really matters in this situation.

**~o~**

We're walking down the hospital hallway – Edward and I – side-by-side; my left hand holding his right. Jake trails behind us silently, diligently, and he stops off at the reception to pick up a pack of med's for Edward. We wait just outside in a little shelter.

"You're sure about this?" I ask him quietly, once we're alone. "I mean, I'm sure Jacob could find somewhere – "

"Bella," he cuts me off, his pretty eyes turning on me. "I don't want to go anywhere else." He squeezes my hand gently. "Please."

I nod, dazed.

He smiles.

Jacob returns then, handing the little bag of medication to Edward.

I'm about to bid him adieu when he quietly asks, "Bella, can I talk to you for a minute?"

I look back to Edward, who's turning the bag over in his palm. I nod at Jacob, holding up my index finger to signal _one minute._

I tug on his hand to get his attention; he looks up – or more _down_, considering he's so damn _tall_ – at me. "I just have to fill out some paperwork here; do you want to go wait in the truck for me?" I wiggle the keys out of my jean pocket and hand them over to him.

He hesitates in taking them, his eyes darting to Jacob hovering behind me. "Everything's alright," I assure him. "I'll be real quick, I promise."

He still looks unsure, so I say, "And you know I keep my promises, right? I'm still here."

He looks at me, a tiny smile quirking up the corner of his lips. He nods once, gives my hand one final squeeze, before whispering; "I trust you."

_You really shouldn't,_ I think, my stomach churning. _If you'd knew what I'd done to you._

I watch him head off to where my truck is parked; only when he's safely inside do I let out a breath and turn back to Jacob.

His arms are crossed, his hip jutted out and eyebrow raised. He is the stereotypical _ticked off woman._

I brace myself.

"What do you think you're doing with that boy, Bella?" he asks, and it's so obviously rhetorical that I don't even bother to open my mouth – not that he'd let me anyway. "What are you going to do when he regains his memory? Even before that – when he asks you who you are? – because he'll ask eventually. And how about when he wonders about how he lost his memory in the first place? What are you going to say to him?"

I open my mouth, close it. I have no answer for him.

"_Jesus_. What about when the President realises his son is missing?" He throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. "And people – people are going to recognise him – if nobody has already!"

My eyes well. "I didn't know Jake!" I explode. "I didn't know who he was – _heck_ – I didn't even know the President had a son!"

"How can you not know something like that?"

I sniff. "I hate politics."

His eyebrows rise.

"I don't watch the news."

One eyebrow drops.

"Or read the newspaper."

Both drop.

"And now . . . now, I can't just . . . just kick him out! I hurt him Jake! I really, really hurt him, and – what? You just want me to ditch him with some stranger who doesn't – "

"They wouldn't be strangers! They'd be his family!"

"They'd be strangers to him!" I yell, chest heaving.

I stare at him with anger simmering in my gut for a long while, but then it fades as defeat encircles my heart. My head drops as my shoulders do. "I don't know what to do, Jake," I whisper. "I can't leave him when he's so helpless – not when he's asked me to stay – I _won't. _Once he . . . gets his memory back then he can go about his life like I never existed, but for now, he'll stay with me as long as he needs – wants – to. I'm not going to force him out." I pick my head up to look at him briefly, his face blurry in my vision.

He visibly softens under my words. "But Bella," he says gently, "what are you going to do when – "

"I don't know," I cut him off. "I don't know . . . but I'll figure it out."

He eyes me strangely for a few moments before sighing. He places his hands on my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. I accept his embrace gratefully, burying my face in his big shoulder.

"You're a good person, Belly-bean," he whispers into my ear. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I won't," I whisper back, clenching my eyes tightly shut.

I can only pray that I'm right.

**~o~**

The drive home is quiet.

Edward doesn't ask about my obviously red face when I enter the truck, and for that – I'm glad. I only utter, _let's go home_ very quietly, and see him nod in the corner of my eye.

I don't turn to radio on. Music seems too trivial.

When I turn off the ignition, I simply sit, staring out of the windshield and morbidly contemplating over what I've done, and what I will do. There's only a matter of time before the whole of the United States is on the look-out for Edward – if they're not already – and then I am royally and truly _fudged_.

I, Bella Swan, for all intents and purposes, _broke_ and then _kidnapped_ the most important man in the United States' _son_.

_Fantastic_.

I think he might need to gain his memory back _fast_ if I'm to avoid imprisonment.

"Bella?" Said son's voice is saying hesitantly – always so _hesitant_. "Are you OK?"

_No, not really._

Nevertheless, I turn to him with a smile on my face. "Sure I am."

He looks like he's contemplating something. "Is it me?" he asks, and I watch as his face visibly pales. "Am I . . . trouble for you?"

I gape. "No, of course you aren't!" He really _isn't_. It's _me_ who messed up.

"I can go," he says, voice strained. "I don't want to be a burden – "

His hand is already pressing on the handle, so I reach over and quickly place mine on top of his, stilling his movements. "Edward," I say quietly, willing his eyes to look up at mine. "Please listen to me. You're absolutely no trouble, and most definitely not a burden. There's just some . . . things I have to fix. I did something and now . . . now it needs repairing."

He lets out a breath but still doesn't look up at me. The truck bed is filled with only the sound of our breaths for what could be minutes but feels like hours, and the silence is a strange kind – a deliberating kind.

"You want to stay?" I whisper in question.

After a moment, he nods.

I move my hand from his to trail up his arm until I'm touching his jaw. I move my fingers to his chin lightly before gently turning his face to mine.

His eyes are awaiting green.

They tell me, _go_.

"Then please stay."

Hesitantly, his hand moves from the door to touch my cheek. I gasp quietly.

He whispers, "OK."


	9. 9: Omelettes and loneliness

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **vickybooksxtwilightx**, **Jasperslittlesnack17**, **mounds01**, **seekerharmoney, BloodOnTheDanceFloor14, LuckySmurfette **and two** Guest's** for reviewing last chapter! You guys make me smile/giggle/swoon. :)

**To note**: In regards to **updates**, there will be **one a day, every day**, until the fic is completed (unless I'm unable to get one out, in which case there will be **two** posted the following day).

Where we left off: Things are heating up in the truck-bed . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . omelettes are eaten and loneliness is debated.  
**

When we return home, it's just gone 2 PM, and my stomach grumbles at me – reminding me that I have yet to eat today; which also means that Edward has yet to eat today, too.

I am definitely not winning the _carer of the year_ award.

I can't even look after _myself_, let alone anyone else.

Sighing, I deposit my keys on the side as I march on into the kitchen; Edward trailing silently behind me. Once there, I pull open my cupboards and survey them for a moment with my hands on my hips.

"You want – " I'm mid-way through my utterance when I turn back around and bump into his chest. The rest of my sentence goes something like _mmmpppffhh_. I look up, flushing several shades of red.

"Sorry," I mutter, turning back around to start pulling out my food choices.

"It's okay," I hear him quietly reply.

Silence ensues as I grab butter, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and milk. I go into the cooker and pull out a frying pan and then set it on the hob. I flick the switch and then there are flames where before there were none.

I clear my throat. "You want an omelette?" I repeat what I was trying to say earlier.

"Okay," he says.

I look up at him with furrowed brows. "Are you just saying that because you think that's what I want to hear?"

He looks back at me blankly.

I sigh. "Do you like omelettes?"

Then it's his turn to furrow his brows. "I don't know."

Right. Of course he doesn't.

_Bella, you noob._

I bite my lip in contemplation. "Well, are you hungry?"

His stomach growls as if on cue.

I smile at the dusting of colour on his cheekbones. "I guess that answers that question."

He shifts around; rubs the back of his neck with his hand. I gesture for him to take a seat in the living room. "Why don't you go and sit? I'll bring it into you once it's ready."

"Um," he stammers, his eyes darting back and forth between mine, his hand tugging on his ear.

"Or you can stay here . . . " I backtrack, feeling a pang of sadness and guilt at his vulnerability.

He simply nods.

"Right, well . . . " I utter, before going back to fixing us some food.

Ten minutes later, with the smell of cooking firmly lingering in the air, I present a plate full of omelette to Edward. He takes it gently, his fingers brushing mine as he utters a "thank you."

"You're welcome," I smile, grabbing my own plate and walking into the lounge with him.

We eat in companionable silence for a couple of minutes, before I break it by asking, "So, do you like omelettes?"

He hums mid-chew and licks his lips. "It's nice, Bella; thank you, " he says, turning to look at me. He's smiling and not choking or dying or anything, so I take his word.

If there's one thing I _can_ do, it's cook.

I smile back. "I love to cook," I admit, "I just don't get to do it for other people very often. So thank _you_." I watch as he relaxes back into the couch behind him, noting the bandage on his head that he must have had rewrapped at the hospital. It looks much better than mine did.

If there's one thing I _can't_ do, it's make wounds look pretty.

"This is hardly anything, anyway," I say, gesturing to my plate as I finish my last bite of omelette. "I'll make us some real good food tonight, you'll just have to – " I break off as I realise what I was going to say next;_ you'll just have to tell me what you like._

Well, he _can't_.

_All thanks to you._

_Way to go, Bella._

My face drops.

"What's the matter?" Edward asks, most likely seeing the less-than happy look donning my features.

"It's nothing," I say, shaking my head. And then I put a purposeful smile on my face.

He eyes me critically.

Like he knows it's fake.

I want to tell him not to worry about me, that he really, really _wouldn't_ if he understood the situation.

_But he doesn't._

And as far as he knows, I'm _all_ he knows.

I let out a breath that was building and gesture to his now empty plate, "More?"

**~o~**

I watch from my spot on the couch as Edward wanders around my flat. He stops to look at little ornaments settled on shelves, picks up books and runs his fingers all along the creased spines, and just generally peers around my little place with curiosity.

This time, _I'm_ the hesitant one.

It's not that I mind him looking at my stuff – he can look all day if he wants to. It's just that I wonder how it's all being _received_. Now that I'm aware of his identity, it's really hard _not_ to feel self-conscious around him.

I have to keep reminding myself that while he's like this, he doesn't hold all the prejudices he might have when he was known as _the President's son._

And then that makes me feel kind of guilty because I'm judging him whereas I didn't know he even _existed_ 24 hours ago.

I'm just really introspective.

I have no idea what's going on in my own life half the time, let alone the country or – heaven forbid – the _world_.

He was probably really nice. I mean, Jake said that his personality wouldn't have been affected by the accident, so . . .

"Who are they?"

My head snaps up to see Edward holding a picture frame in his hand; looking down at it intently.

I get up and walk over to him slowly. Once I reach him, I peer over at the photograph.

"Oh," I say, "that's me." I point to myself. "My mom." I gesture towards the woman whose arms are wrapped around a younger me. "And my dad." I finish, who stands to the side with a proud smile on his face. "I'd just graduated," I smile, looking at my lopsided hat in the picture and remembering back to my University days.

"You look happy," he says, his finger tracing around my face over the glass.

"I was," I say, "I loved learning there. And to get a degree . . . it was mind-blowing. To know you have this thing that signifies all your hard work for four years . . . and then to be able to keep it forever – and nobody can take it away from you . . . " I trail off, abruptly realising I'm rambling.

I snap out of my reverie to see him looking down, a small smile on his face.

"Was . . . " he says quietly, and his smile disappears to be replaced with a frown.

"Huh?" I ask, oh-so eloquently.

"You said was," he says, looking up at me. "As in, you _were_ happy." He pauses. "Are you not anymore?"

"Uh, well," I stammer, wondering about his observation skills, as _I_ hadn't even realised I had put my happiness in the past tense. "Why wouldn't I be happy?" I ask, for some reason not being able to give him a straight answer.

He shrugs back in response, putting the photo back on the shelf.

"For the same reason you're letting me stay here?" he says, and his voice is almost non-existent, so I think he means not for me to hear. Nevertheless I do, and I can't help but tense.

_For the same reason you're letting me stay here?_

"Why are you letting me stay here?" he asks, louder, and I know he means for me to hear this time because his eyes catch mine when he speaks, and he reaches out to encircle my wrist with his fingers – which seem ridiculously _long_ once I see how they overlap on my skin.

I tear my eyes away from our connected limbs to look up with furrowed brows. "Do you not want to?" On the inside I'm panicking, fearing this type of conversation will most definitely lead to him asking _who I am._

He draws his bottom lip into his mouth before letting it go again – freshly red. "That's not what I asked."

I close my eyes and sigh. If I don't give him an answer, then he might just push some more and I really _don't_ want him to.

"I'm lonely," I blurt out before I've even thought about the words (I have a habit of doing this), but as soon as they _are_ out do I realise their truth.

I _am_ lonely.

My eyes snap open, and I look up at Edward – not really knowing what to expect, but nervous anyway.

His fingers drip down my wrist to tangle with mine. He squeezes my hand, and his lips pull up into a small smile – I think it might be a little sad.

He whispers, "Me, too."


	10. 10: 20 to 200 q's and sleeping places

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Jasperslittlesnack17**, **xxDeadInsidexx**, **Sky and Sea, seekerharmoney, Vanquish13 **and **xyz789 **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

p.s. I'm so glad you're all enjoying the fluff! :) On a scale of 1-10, how fluffy would you say it is? (It's about to get more so).

Where we left off: Bella's assaultee is getting kind of curious . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . 20 turns into 200 and sleeping arrangements are made.**

Edward keeps me talking right up until evening approaches, and comes shining its darkness through my windows.

It seems like a game of 20 questions turned into a game of 200, and it's also incredibly one-sided, seeing as only one of us knows enough about themselves to then answer questions on that particular subject.

_Themselves_, that is.

And while I'm not a big-talker in the most generous of terms, I find that I can't refuse Edward what he wants to know. It seems fair that he gets to divulge in my life – as mundane as it is – until he gets his own back.

So, by the end of our game, he knows pretty much all there is to know about Bella Swan. And it's with genuine confusion that I take in the look of fascination and awe in his eyes – sure it must be a trick of the artificial lighting.

Because I think we have already established that:

A) My life? What life?

And:

B) See above.

"That's amazing," he sighs, once I've finished telling him about my English degree.

"Your mom sounds fun." He smiles, after I've told him about all her superstitious and voo-doo type antics.

And my personal favourite:

"Forks seems like a nice place to live."

I don't want to spoil his perception, so I just say, "It really is."

By the time I'm yawning and my lids are drooping, he's staring at me with fresh eyes and a wide smile.

All I can think is: if this is how he reacts to _my_ life, I wonder how he'd react to _his_ if I told him.

It could probably go either way. And I'm too tired to overwhelm him.

I decide not to say anything right now.

"You tired?" I ask, covering my mouth as yet another yawn escapes me. I shift my eyes down to my watch and just know I'm _gaping_ as I take in the time.

It's _11 PM._

Holy fudge!

We had had dinner around six-ish (a roast dinner – I figured you couldn't go wrong with chicken and mash) and he'd seemed to enjoy it (unless he was just eating it to please me – but that thought went quickly out of the window when I served him up thirds).

Edward had done some more wandering around my flat up until then, and then afterwards we'd settled on the couch – bellies full – and he'd started quizzing me on everything and anything about, well, _me_.

He'd came out of himself more and more as the day grew darker; his hesitance lessening and his posture relaxing as we talked. He was bright and energetic, enthusiastic and observant. He was also a very good listener – like, when I was talking, I didn't feel like I was boring him, he looked _genuinely_ interested. I can't remember the last time someone found me interesting.

It was kind of . . . nice.

But then the warm glow would fade as I realised that I was only interesting because he didn't know anything – or anybody – else. What about when his memory came back?

"Are you?" Edward asks, snapping me out of rapidly mood-killing thoughts.

His eyes survey my face as I hide another yawn, and he smiles. "I guess that answers that question." He recites my words from earlier with a little smirk on his face.

I snort, amused.

_Mole's got wit._

"I might be a little tired," I admit, resting the side of my face against the back of the couch. I let myself lose the battle against my heavy lids for a minute, but re-open them again when I feel myself start to free-fall into the ever-tempting natural drug called _sleep_.

I blink blearily, and almost jump back in surprise when I see Edward has decided to mirror my action, and his face is about 5 inches away from mine.

"Did you fall asleep?" he asks in a whisper.

"No," I whisper back, treating the silence like delicate glass – if I speak too loud, the bubble around us might shatter.

I look down at my wrist to see a further 15 minutes has passed, and I realise it's _very good_ that it's Sunday tomorrow, because there's absolutely no _way_ I'd be able to function if I had work tomorrow.

"You should sleep," he whispers.

"So should you," I reply softly, gingerly bringing up my hand to touch around the white patch of bandage on his head. "It's been a tough day." I smile at him sadly, and as green clashes with brown, I think we both abruptly realise the seriousness of this situation.

We both sigh.

After that, I get up silently and stretch my limbs, groaning quietly at the ache resounding in them. My sitting furniture is just really _not meant_ to be slept on. Nevertheless I say – "You can have the bed," – while motioning toward my bedroom door. There's absolutely no way I'm going to let him sleep on the couch again – wouldn't have last night if I'd been physical able to move him any further.

I peer down at him to see him shaking his head. "No, it's okay," he says, "it's your bed – you should have it."

"Edward," I say stubbornly, positioning my hands on my hips – a pose I have dubbed_: The Jake._ "There's absolutely no way I'm letting you sleep on that uncomfortable couch. You're my _guest_, and guests get the beds."

_He_ remains defiant. "I'm not kicking you out of your own bed – guest or not."

_I_ remain stubborn. "I'm not letting you sleep on the couch."

We stare each other down for a minute before our lips start twitching in unison. Then we're laughing – and I don't know how long it lasts, but I know it feels good – just to laugh for a moment.

I drop my arms – which had been folded to make _The Jake_ look authentic – and collapse next to him. He turns his head to smile at me, green eyes twinkling in the dark shining lowly through the windows.

"All right," I say, grinning, lifting my arms up in mock exasperation. "What do you suggest, then?"

He looks thoroughly amused.

"Well," he says, "either you sleep in your bed, and I sleep here." I start to protest but he lifts his hand to cover my mouth – gently. I smile underneath his palm, his skin tickling the sensitive skin on my lips.

"Or," he starts, and then some of his happy fades to be replaced with nervousness. He coughs, and I can see his cheeks growing red. I watch the colour pool into his cheeks; fascinated.

"Um," he stammers, blinking a lot. "You could – I could – we both could – " he lets out a huff of breath, seemingly annoyed. He swallows dryly – his adams apple bobbing.

I speak, only for the words to be muffled by his palm.

He quickly retracts his hand. "Sorry," he mutters, not looking my way.

I clear my throat, and his eyes snap up to mine. "We could sleep together," I blurt out, and watching his eyes widen, I realise how that must have sounded.

My cheeks flush.

"In the bed! In the bed!" I cry, hurriedly trying to fix the situation. "We could share the bed and sleep in it – just _sleep_." I emphasize, my hands twisting and twining together nervously in my lap.

He nods, eyes glassy. "That's actually what I was trying to – " he stops abruptly, looking down as blood pools more quickly under his pale skin.

I stand up quickly; the embarrassment in the air settling heavily on my skin – I cringe away from it. "R-right," I stammer, "I'll just go and get the . . . the bedding sorted – and I'll get you another change of clothes," I utter this as I hurriedly make my way to my bedroom. "Feel free the use the bathroom!" I call out, before darting inside of my bedroom and shutting the door softly.

I lean back onto it heavily. "Bella, you _douche_," I whisper to myself, slapping my forehead with my palm. "Way to make an awkward situation even _more_ awkward."

I stand there for moment – wallowing in self-inflicted embarrassment – before doing what I told Edward I was going to do; making my bed seem presentable.

I do my best to fix it up – swiping clothes off its surface and tucking the sheet back in from where it had pulled out. I plump up my meagre pillows and shake the duvet a few times before laying it gently over the top once more.

I huff as I stare at it.

Then I roll my eyes.

_We're just going to be sleeping it – not having a party on it._

_Jeez._

There's a gentle knock at my door.

"Bella?" the voice calls softly.

"I'm coming," I say, and even I can hear the tremble in my voice.

I quickly go about securing him some more clothes – more pyjama type ones this time – and open my door. I hand him the clothes and he takes them.

"Thank you," he utters quietly.

I nod in response. "You can change in here," I say, "if you're finished in the bathroom?"

He nods.

"Okay," I say gently, "then I'll be back in a minute." I grab my pyjamas and quickly make my way out of the room, shutting the door softly behind me.

Once in the bathroom, I survey myself in the mirror above the sink. My cheeks are flushed a bright red – as are my lips from all the nervous biting I've been doing – and my usually dull eyes are bright.

"Get a grip," I whisper to myself, as it firmly registers I'm going to be having a bed-guest. I would like to say that this isn't the first time that I've shared a bed with a man – because at 24, it just feels a little sad – but it is. And I'm nervous.

"Just sleeping," I whisper to my reflection. "You slept with him last night – on the sofa, after all."

_But that was different,_ I think. _I didn't mean for that to happen – didn't even know how it had._

_I didn't fall asleep knowing I wasn't going to wake up on my own._

I go through my nightly routine robotically – avoiding the mirror at all costs.

**~o~**

I knock on my bedroom door after I've done all the stalling I can do. "You decent?" I whisper against the warm wood.

"Yeah," he responds back, quietly.

I take a breath and then pull the door open. He's standing kind of awkwardly in the middle of the room; the old clothes in his hand, not touching anything.

It occurs to me that he may be a nervous as I am, and that makes me feel a little better.

I walk over to him slowly, taking the clothes out of his hand and putting them in a hamper next to my drawers. When I turn back around, he stands in the same spot as before – frozen still like an ice sculpture.

"You okay?" I ask gently.

His eyes meet mine. "Are you?"

I smile softly. "Touché."

A ghost of a smile appears on his face as I once again walk towards him.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he whispers, shifting nervously on the spot. "I can still go and sleep – "

"It's fine," I utter gently in reply, cutting him off. "I _promise_."

His tensed shoulders droop; the taut lines in his face ease out, and then he reaches a hand out to pull me closer – heat mingling with heat.

"Let's go to bed," I whisper.


	11. 11: Lying warmth and ice truths part 1

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **mounds01**, **xxDeadInsidexx**, **RobsTip, Matthias Stormcrow, Vanquish13 **and **vickybooksxtwilightx **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

**Note:** Important **AN** at bottom. So make sure you read it!

Where we left off: Things are heating up at bed-time . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I wake up hot via a bed-guest but are turned cold via television. (Part 1 Ch.11)  
**

The night that follows is dreamless, warm – thanks to there being two sources of heat instead of only one – and, for me at least, very restful.

We go to sleep on our separate sides of the bed – me right, him left – with very little space in between, because my bed just isn't as big as it is when there's only me in it. It seems shrunken in size all of sudden. And it's as if there's this invisible cord attaching me and my bed-guest together, because the air around us – it hums.

It doesn't take me long to fall asleep. I find that having somebody lie next to me is strangely comforting, and it makes me feel secure in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

Before I do drift into the land of nod, though, I might feel a hand slide into mine and squeeze.

And I might squeeze back.

**~o~**

For the second morning in a row, I'm awoken by the sounds of birds chirping cheerfully, and to the smell of apple scent. I realise my alarm clock is still outside – lying on the grass somewhere – and I send out a mournful apology to it in spirit.

It takes me a few moments to register where the smell is coming from, before the days previous come back to me in flashes (I'm understandably slow in the mornings, and things don't often occur right away).

I think I let out a sound that's something between a groan and a sigh, and both snuggle up to, and push away from, said smell.

I manage to loosen the bonds that hold me tight to pull back a fraction. I'm ridiculously _hot_. I didn't realise two people sharing a space could generate so much _heat_.

Science? Not my forte.

Looking up at Edward's face, with my hands pressing on his chest and his arms wrapped around my waist, I wonder how we keep ending up in such compromising positions.

Either:

A) I'm a sleep hugger.

Or,

B) He's a sleep hugger.

I would be inclined to put all the blame on me but –

I keep thinking about the couch incident and I realise that –

I sleep _talk_, not sleep _walk_.

I might have to blame that one on him.

As I eye both sides of the bed now though, I realise that we've both shuffled over to the middle. And with a sigh, I realise that this doesn't bother me nearly enough as it should.

I drop my head back onto the pillow bellow his, and when five minutes pass, and it becomes abruptly clear to me that I'm watching him sleep, I realise I should vacate the space ASAP.

I'm going for non-creepy today.

**~o~**

I hum as I make breakfast for the two of us. Usually, my morning meal would consist of a big bowl of cereal – I love cereal – but I figured it might be nice to make something a little more . . . sophisticated for once.

He _is_ the President's son after all.

Even if he doesn't know it – I do.

It's actually _nice_ to be making food for more than just myself. I guess it kind of makes you feel like you're looking after someone for a little bit, and if nothing else – you know they're bellies are full and satisfied.

I go into the living room and flip the telly on as I wait for the bacon to cook. I turn the volume down real low as I chance a look over to my closed bedroom door – not wanting to wake my guest when it's obvious he needs to sleep.

I'm flipping through the channels when it happens.

The President.

Edward's face.

" _. . . disappeared a few nights . . ."_

" _. . . any information regarding . . . "_

" _. . . please contact . . . "_

" _. . . big cash reward if . . . "_

Snippets of quick speech are collected and processed within milliseconds in my brain.

And my only thought is:

_Shit_.

* * *

**A/N:** Do NOT panic. Short chapter is short, I know – but it's just going to be **half of one** chapter, the latter half will be posted later (because I just couldn't resist ending it there).

See you in a bit!


	12. 11: Lying warmth and ice truths part 2

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Matthias Stormcrow, ellaryne **and **snowiewolf **for reviewing part 1 of 2 of this chapter!

p.s. sorry if it's a lttle _blah_. I'm really sleepy. (Goodnight. Xoxo)

Where we left off: (Let's just get on with it, shall we . . . ?)

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I choke on fumes and the truth. (Part 2 Ch.11)  
**

Snippets of quick speech are collected and processed within milliseconds in my brain.

And my only thought is:

_Shit_.

**~o~**

I can feel the blood as it rushes from my face – leaving it pale and bloodless and cold – as my eyes take in the glow of the television. My stomach starts to churn; nausea grips my throat in a vice hold and I dare not even blink – my eyes attached to the telly with something like morbid-fascination.

_They're going to find me._

_They're going to find Edward._

_Then they're going to lock me up for the rest of my God-given life._

_Or kill me._

_I'm too young to die!_

And now I'm fully _freaking out._

I should expect this – the President's son goes missing and you've got to expect a fan-fare – and yet I'm unprepared.

Edward's face is flashing on my TV screen, along with a woman I'm assuming is his mom, and somebody else, maybe his sister – their faces are crumpled, not even trying to hide their tears.

Oh, _God_.

My face falls in return, but I can't take my eyes away from their pain; vividly aware that I could fix it – just like _that_.

I need to.

I _have_ to.

Without thought, my hand shoots out and clutches my house phone. My fingers are already dialling the buttons continually flashing on-screen before I've even brought it back to me.

I bring the phone to my ear, there's a ringing and then –

"_Hello, you've reached – "_

"Bella?"

I freeze in place, my previously opened mouth closes. I turn slowly toward my now open bedroom door – Edward leans against the frame, blinking at me sleepily.

Horror washes through my system.

My index finger finds the power button on the TV.

My thumb pushes firmly down on the _end call_ button.

And pure _shock_ is hitching a ride on my nerve endings.

I swallow noisily, standing up quickly. I open and close my mouth many times – not knowing what to say to him. All I can see are his family's faces as they weep over a missing son, missing brother.

They don't know whether he's dead or alive.

I think about how my parents would feel if I suddenly disappeared off the face of the Earth, and I know . . . know what I'm doing isn't right.

The smell of burning attacks my nose.

"Bacon!" I blurt out, watching his eyes widen as I rush out of the room and out of sight into the kitchen. I swear silently and cough loudly as I hurry to the cooker and quickly pull the now charred pieces of meat out; smoke lightly perfuming the kitchen.

I groan, palming my feverish forehead.

I really need some air to breathe but all I can taste is burnt oxygen, and my throat revolts against me – tried to push the contaminated stuff away.

I'm coughing in earnest when Edward comes into the kitchen; his green eyes growing huge as he takes in the situation. He quickly rushes over to my side – taking the tray of burnt bacon out of my hand – before grabbing me gently by the elbow and pulling me out of the room.

He disappears into the kitchen once again – doing what, I don't know – but is back out in a second.

He ushers me over to the sofa. "Are you crazy?" he blurts out, his hand rubbing up and down on my back thoroughly as I continue to choke unattractively on past fumes.

"Only – " _cough_ " – on – " _cough_ " – the weekends." My throat is itchy, and it hurts to take in air so I'm forced to try to expel it again in the form of a choke.

I can barely make out the sound of his groan above the din of my noises.

He scoots closer, patting on my back.

After a while, my throat starts feeling a little less dry and tickly – a painful kind of tickle that almost refuses to be soothed – and more like a throat should feel again. My cough lessens, and his hand moves away as I lean back against the sofa.

I close my eyes; trying to shut the world away.

"I'll go get you some water," Edward says, close to my ear and quiet.

"Thank you," I croak out, when he hands me a cool glass of goodness. I take small sips; the substance dousing out little flames in my throat.

"Are you okay?" he asks me, looking over me worriedly. "Maybe you should go to the hospital."

I attempt a laugh but immediately stop at the painful vibrations it causes against my throat. "I'm fine," I reply, "believe me – I've had worse."

His look of worry increases ten-fold. "You hurt yourself a lot?"

I shrug. "The hurt finds me, most of the time."

He frowns, but says no more as he picks up my hand not holding the glass.

I look at him; his head tipped down as he rubs circles into the palm of my hand, wisps of red hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes – his dark, furrowed eyebrows.

My hear clenches a little as I give another feeble little cough.

It's nice to have someone _care_ – even if it's just pretend.

"Edward," I whisper-croak, "I have to tell you something."

His head lifts up; green eyes boring intently into mine. "Okay."

I close my eyes for a split second – see his family in my mind.

I re-open them, and suddenly see his mom in his features.

"I was lying earlier," I blurt out.

He looks confused, but doesn't stop stroking my palm. "About what?"

I hesitate . . . and the words that spill out aren't the ones I intended to say. "I'm not just crazy on the weekends. I'm crazy all the time."

The smile he shoots me makes my conscience hiss.

_I'm going to hell in a handbasket._


	13. 12: Making a mess & realising rightness

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Sky and Sea,** **Matthias Stormcrow, xxDeadInsidexx, Jasperslittlesnack17 **and **xyz789 **for reviewing part 2 of 2 of last chapter!

p.s. You're all feeling as torn as Bella! Sit tight, you guys! Also, it's my sister's 11th birthday today ~ so this chapter is for her. :)

Where we left off: Bella just can't find the words . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . we make a mess and I realise what I must do.  
**

The rest of the day passes with me in a shaky state at best. Gone is the ease of last night, now there's only an uncomfortable strain in my heart – that only clutches tighter each time I look at Edward, which is almost _all the time_ because he doesn't leave my side.

He follows my movements, whether it be with his eyes or his body. It's unnerving to have a constant surveillance of everything I do – more used to fading in with the background than standing out from it.

His green eyes watch, and wait, like I'm going to explode at any minute.

"Edward," I breathe, feeling his hand touch my clammy forehead for the umpteenth time. "I'm fine – really. I just feel a little sick."

I'm leaning back against the couch, eyes closed, but can feel the vibration in the air even before he touches me, and sends mini tornadoes under my skin.

"You don't feel fine," he says sceptically, moving his hand to my – what I'm sure is – flushed, cheek.

I huff out a laugh, but nevertheless push his concern away – though I don't push his _hand_ away. His skin is cool and soft, and feels soothing – like a balm. "I guess it's good I don't have work today, then."

I don't feel good, but I'm not too concerned over this fact. It's probably just on account of being out in the pouring rain the other day, the stress, the smoke, and now the burning sickness in my gut that has _nothing_ to do with actual sickness but _everything_ to do with the man currently sitting next to me.

I'm glad for the bad feeling, though. _Tit for tat_, I think.

Even still, my suffering feels absolutey minuscule in comparison to his family's.

I open my eyes to stare up at the ceiling, feeling him shift next to me. I turn my head to look over at him; he leans on the couch like I do, only he's facing sideways so he faces me, instead of the ceiling. His eyebrows are furrowed, his hand now on my neck.

I sigh, because he seems to take better care of me than I do of him.

"You know what always makes me feel better?" I ask softly.

His eyes shoot to mine. "What?"

I smile at him in the form of reply, and stand up slowly, his hand slithering from my neck in the process. I start walking backward toward the kitchen – now free of fumes courtesy of Edward – and crook my finger in a _come on_ motion.

The side of his mouth lifts up in a crooked smile.

Once in the kitchen, he holds his palms upwards as if to say: _what now?_

I swivel around, dip into a cupboard and pull out a bowl. Setting it on the counter, I turn to him with a grin, and say, "Cake."

"Cake?" he asks, looking at the bowl curiously.

I nod. "That's what makes me feel better: cake."

He says nothing more, but his eyes brighten in abject relief.

**~o~**

The kitchen is a mass of pots and pans, – both clean and dirty – flour, sugar, butter and eggshells, - cracked and whole – cake boxes, icing and sprinkles, not an hour later.

I smile as I roll out more dough, side-eyeing Edward icing already made cupcakes with his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. His long fingers deftly pluck cake after cake and decorate them almost perfectly. Once finished with another batch, he turns to me and cocks an eyebrow, as if to say: _How good?_

I look down at them and smile. "They're beautiful," I coo.

He smiles shyly at me, lifting a hand to run through his hair, and as he does, he coats it powder white with his flour-stained fingers.

He'd started off making cakes, but that proved disastrous so we switched so he ended up decorating them instead.

I choke on a laugh. It looks like the left side of his hair has lost its pigmentation.

"You have a little something . . . " I trail off, reaching up to touch his hair; my hand is paper-white when I pull away.

He's looking at me strangely when I pull away, not yet noticing my hand covered with flour because he's looking into my eyes. "What?" he almost whispers, lifting a hand to touch his cheeks and the corners of his mouth.

And then –

Flour.

Everywhere.

I can't help it.

I snort.

His eyes widen.

And then I just burst out laughing.

Because _really_.

The man's covered in flour.

I'm not too mature to find that funny.

I laugh until my eyes tear up and my stomach starts to hurt, all the while he just stands there, looking very confused.

"What?" he asks me, looking down at himself. "Is there something on my face?"

Why, yes Edward, yes there is.

I'm positively sure I bust a gut laughing.

"You have," I manage to gasp out in between giggles, "flour . . . " I make a motion to his face and hair. "_Everywhere_."

Comprehension dawns in his eyes, but it's too late, because I'm already choking on my laughter again.

"Oh God," I wheeze out, taking in his white-white appearance. "You look like _Casper_."

When I finally gain some semblance of self-control, I look into is eyes, still quietly giggling, as I wipe the remaining tears from my own.

His calm, collected face stares back at me; his arms crossed. "Are you quite finished?" he asks.

I take deep breaths so I won't erupt into hysterics again. "I – I think so," I say, biting my lip to hold back my smile.

He nods. "Well then," he says, rolling up his sleeves dramatically. He takes a step towards me, and I unconsciously take one back. "I think it's my turn." His façade of cool cracks as he dips his hands into the big bag of flour on the side – he grins mischievously at me; his hands snow-white.

I let out a little squeak of shock as he closes in on me.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I cry with a smile, his eyes twinkling playfully back at me.

"Too late!" he says, and then dives after me in earnest; hands outstretched.

I barely evade his grasp.

And then for the next hour or so, we chase each other with bags of flour, and smiles on our faces that soon erupt into laughter.

**~o~**

We collapse onto the couch together afterwards, both covered head-to-toe in flour and breathless.

"Truce?" I ask, fighting to catch my breath.

"Truce," he agrees, settling his messy head on top of mine.

**~o~**

"Feel better?" I ask, when Edward comes out of the bathroom; hair still wet.

He throws me a lopsided smile and nods. "I don't look as pale anymore."

I snort in agreement when he winks at me.

I stand and stretch. "I guess I better go un-pale my self, too." I go into my bedroom and retrieve some pyjamas and underwear. When I spin back around, I almost bump into Edward's chest.

"You scared me," I accuse, breathless, trying to scowl up at him but failing miserably when his smile grows crooked.

"Sorry," he says, but doesn't sound very sorry at all. "I was just going to lie down for a bit." He looks at me nervously then. "Is that, um, okay?"

I nod. "Of course it is – you don't need to ask me, besides." I lean slightly to the left to peer around him at the sofa which also became very pale during out flour-fight. "I think if you sat on that, you'd need another shower."

He looks behind him, too, and then turns back to me, rubbing his neck and looking sheepish. "Sorry," he says, and this time he sounds like he means it.

"Don't worry about it. I think it may be a vast improvement, anyway." I say with a smile.

He smiles back.

**~o~**

I step out of my clothes and into the shower with a sigh; the hot water almost immediately soothing my aching muscles that always seem _achy_.

For a while I just stand under the hot spray and allow my mind to empty – thinking of nothing at all, and feeling nothing but the water hitting my skin. The room steams and grows humid, and my thoughts drift and grow far.

_Ahhh . . . _

I grudgingly turn off the water when it starts to run cold, stepping out and dressing in comfort. I go about my nightly routine slowly, feeling drowsy and un-rushed for once.

A smile pulls at my lips when I recall flour.

**~o~**

The sky has gone dark, and Edward is sleeping. It's around 9 PM, but I find that I can't sleep just yet. I lean against the doorway to my bedroom and watch with soft eyes as Edward lies on his stomach, his back gently moving up and down and his lids flickering. He sighs often into my pillow and buries into its softness – and a sudden an unexpected surge of protectiveness shoots through me.

_He looks vulnerable._

I back out of the room slowly, shutting the door behind me softly.

Thoughts and truths that had been pushed away during mine and Edward's fun, and then my shower, suddenly come back and present themselves to me. I grasp my forehead in my palm and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment – suddenly woozy.

When I re-open them again, they're shouting so loud that I flinch.

I walk toward the living room as my happiness starts to disintegrate when I realise that it's _false_ happiness. I can only push away certain things for so long before they come rushing back to the surface.

_I fought the truth and the truth won._

I start pacing as I think. My brows furrow in contemplation and concentration as I ponder the man currently sleeping in my bed. He's not mine to keep – a flash of tears wept for him by his family – no matter how much I want to.

I pause suddenly, shocked by my own realisation.

_I want him to stay?_

I think I . . . I do.

I start walking again, though I still feel frozen inside.

It makes sense, in a way. I've never wanted to live alone.

I'd lived with Renee up until I was 16. She'd married this guy – Phil something – and she'd wanted to go traveling with him. Of course I let her go, after all, how can you keep someone that doesn't want to be kept?

We speak on the phone at least once a week, and I usually see her at Christmas. But it's not really the same, and I miss her.

I lived with Charlie up until recently actually. Neither of us were big talkers, but our co-existence was simple and easy. But then he'd met Sue, and it a rare-un-Charlie-like move, had dropped his bachelor status and married her.

I'd felt like a burden, so two-weeks into their married-life, I left.

Coming back to the present, I glance toward my bedroom door and sigh.

_I'm lonely._

But what I'm doing to rectify it isn't right.

I wrap my arms around my middle tightly, my heart beating fast in my chest. The realisation of what I must do comes quick and clear to me.

Edward's going to go back to his family, but I'm going to make sure he goes back knowing who they are.

And then he can go on like I never existed.

Because to the Edward who remembers, I really won't have.


	14. 13: Disappearing notes and making calls

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Matthias Stormcrow, xxDeadInsidexx, snowiewolf, vickybooksxtwilightx, seekerharmoney **and a **Guest **for reviewing last chapter! I really appreciate you taking the time to send me your thoughts. :)

p.s. I started another story – It's called **_The Circus of Dreams_**, and if you like the magical/fantastical etc., then this might be right up your street! Go and check it out (if you want), and if not, well, enjoy this!

Where we left off: There were flour fights, and then there were sad realisations . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . my note disappears and I make a call.  
**

I wake up early the next morning – despite not having an alarm clock – and once more find myself wrapped up in Edward's arms.

I check my watch and see I have few minutes to spare before I have to haul-ass to work, so I close my eyes and allow myself to lay there for a moment – surrounded by apple scent and warmth.

Time passes, and I'm reluctant to leave his comfortable embrace, but I do nevertheless. I pull myself out of his arms – I've learnt that if hug him real tight before departing, his embrace is much easier to escape from. It's as if so long as one of us is holding the other really, really securely, then it's okay for the other not to.

Like we have each other's backs.

Like one will hold and the other will be held – and vice versa.

I wiggle out of his embrace and go about getting ready for work. I feel surprisingly rested despite my tumult thoughts the previous night. It's possible it has something to do with Edward.

…

…

OK, OK . . . it's probable.

He's just comfortable.

And warm.

And he smells nice.

And the beat of his heart is soothing.

His arms make me feel safe.

…

…

I shake my head at myself, and then quickly scribble a note down for Edward, telling him where I've gone, when I'll be back, and that _he's free to do anything he likes._

I write _goodbye_, but then I hesitate, and scribble it back out again.

I'm hoping he'll still be here when I get back.

I'm hoping this isn't goodbye.

**~o~**

Work is slow.

I'm on time today, so James can't yell at me, which admittedly improves the crap-ity of work _some_.

Alice is also another plus. She's her usual energetic and eccentric self. She starts telling me about this one-night stand she had with this Jasper guy, and now she can't decide whether she wants to pursue something more with him or not.

"He sounds nice," I offer.

"I don't know," she sighs dramatically, leaning over her computer. "The sex was good, but I'm just not really sure I'm _ready_ for a full-fledged relationship."

_Sigh_.

Nevertheless, her constant stream of chatter keeps my mind from turning over things and becoming too depressive, so I'm grateful.

My eyes keep straying to the clock, and I'm pretty sure my work-input is at an all-time low.

When it hits _12_, I'm the first to leave for lunch.

I hide on the stair well, my phone in my hand as I dial my landline. I mess it up a couple of times because my fingers are shaking so badly.

_Will anybody be there to pick up?_

I'm biting my lip so hard as I listen to it ringing; each one sounding much louder and more ominous than the last.

_One – _

_Two – _

_Three – _

"H-hello?"

I slump against the wall in relief.

"Edward," I breathe, "you're still there."

"Bella," he breathes back, sounding equal parts relieved. "W-where are you?"

I frown, confused. "At work. I left you a note . . . " I trail off.

Silence.

"What note?" he asks quietly.

My mouth drops, my face pales. "The note. The note I left you on the side . . . "

His voice is small when he responds, "I didn't see one."

"Oh, Edward," I say sadly into the receiver, falling down into a sitting position.

"I'm s-sorry."

I shake my head against the phone, but then realise he can't see me. "It's not your fault at all, it's just . . . what must have you been thinking?" I choke out. "Like I just . . . _left_ you?" My eyes start to sting. "Oh, sweetheart, _I'm_ sorry."

"Bella," he whispers down the line. "I didn't think you'd left . . . well I did, but I knew you'd come back."

I smile despite my stinging eyes.

**~o~**

I take the stairs two steps at a time once I reach my building. The lift has decided not to work today.

When I pause outside my front door, I find my hands are shaking just as my heart is pumping. There's both an abrupt stillness and a shoot of adrenaline that urges me _faster_.

I breathe, and then I unlock the door.

Stepping inside, I see no sign of him anywhere.

"Edward?" I call uncertainly, as I close the door behind me. When there's no answer, my chest clutches tightly in panic. I drop my bag to the floor and quickly discard of my shoes as I wander through – checking the lounge, kitchen and bathroom – but finding no trace of him.

I find him in the bedroom.

"Edward!" I cry out – though I don't mean to – and my tone is distressed. His head snaps up to look at me from where he lies on the bed, previously staring up at the ceiling. "I thought you'd gone! Why didn't you answer when I called a moment ago?"

It takes me a second to realise I sound like a pushy mother.

I cringe.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," I say hurriedly, neck flushing. I go over to him and sit next to where he lays. He's staring up at me with big eyes, mouth gaping.

"Sorry," I say, biting my bottom lip sheepishly. "I told you I was crazy, didn't I?"

His shocked look gradually fades to become a soft one. "Hi, Bella," he says softly, smiling at me. His hand crawls over to mine to entwine out fingers together. "How was your day?"

I think I might swoon.

Just a little.

(Maybe a lot).

"Oh," I sigh, more over him than over my day. "Pretty boring – slow." I shrug as if to emphasise the normality of this. "How was yours?" I query. "What did you do?"

"Oh," he sighs back, and I fight off a grin. Then he squeezes my hand and says, "I missed you."

_Gah_.

I mean, _gah_.

Is he for real?

If not, then please _don't_ pinch me.

I can feel the heat creeping up my neck once more, and there's absolutely no way I can fight it off. "I missed you, too," I say, blushing heavily. "I'm sorry you didn't see my note."

He shrugs. "Doesn't matter now."

I give him a half smile.

"Are you tired?" I ask, gesturing to him and the bed.

"Tired?" he asks back, looking confused before comprehension dawns as I tap the mattress. "Oh, not really. I was just thinking."

My stomach turns over itself queasily. "You were?" I ask quietly – nervously. "About what?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by a ringing sound coming from somewhere in the apartment.

I shoot up quickly, remembering the call I had made earlier that day.

"Phone," I blurt out, and his eyes widen as I stand up and start to back away – our joined hands stretching over the distance until we're forced to let go. "I have to get that, it might be, uh, important." And then I bolt.

But . . . then I bolt back, and appear in his line of vision once more.

"I'll be right back."

He nods, and I think he might smirk at me before I disappear again.

I stumble around in my bag clumsily for a moment before finding the noisy device. I look over my shoulder quickly before bringing the phone to my ear and answering.

"Jake?" I answer lowly, keeping my tone quiet.

"Yeah, Bells, it's me."

I clear my throat. "Will you help me?"

He sighs down the line before responding.

"Of course I will."

I close my eyes in relief. "Thank you, Jacob," I whisper, "really."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, and I can practically see him waving me off. "I understand why you're doing this, Bella, even if I don't 100% agree with it."

I sigh silently. "I know."

We're quiet for a little while, until Jake breaks it.

"So, when should we start?"

"Um, well I was thinking the sooner, the better."

"Okay," he agrees. "But, Bells . . . you know there's no guarantee that this will help – at all?"

"I know," I whisper, chewing on my thumb. "But I have to try."

We bid our goodbyes with the mutual agreement to set the wheels in motion soon. I'm certain that there must be something I can do to help speed Edward's recovery along.

He should be with his family – and not with me.

I try to ignore the tightening in the pit of my stomach at the thought of his leaving.

Try, but fail.

I re-enter the bedroom, seeing him staring up at the ceiling again.

"Hey," I say quietly, and he turns his head slowly to face me; eyes smiling in greeting. He doesn't ask who called, and for that I'm glad. "You hungry?"

He eyes me carefully, and answers with his typical response, "Are you?"

I let out a laugh, coming deeper into the room. I sit next to him on the bed again, and am surprised when he tugs on my arm to lie next to him. I hesitate, but then do.

"Why'd you always ask me that?" I query, relaxing into the mattress and him.

He doesn't respond for a while, and I wonder maybe he hasn't heard me.

But then he says, very quietly and softly, "Because I think there should be someone to worry about you, too."


	15. 14: Stars, sweethearts, and sorrow

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **ellaryne**, **Jasperslittlesnack17**, **bopper**, **Matthias Stormcrow, xxDeadInsidexx, snowiewolf, Sky and Sea, vickybooksxtwilightx, seekerharmoney **and a **Guest **for reviewing last chapter! I really appreciate you taking the time to send me your thoughts. :)

**p.s.** I 'm really sorry about not updating yesterday. My brother came back home to England from Romania with my niece recently, and I've really just been spending time with them. I haven't seen them since Christmas, so they're really my top priority right now.

Though, because of there being no chapter yesterday, there (hopefully) should be two tomorrow. My brother is taking himself and my 2 year-old niece to his friends up in Manchester tomorrow, before he has to go back to Romania, so I'll have time to wirte.

**p.p.s.** We reached a **100** reviews last chapter! Woo! Thank you guys so much ~ you make this fic what it is. :) *hands cookies to all*

Where we left off: Notes going disappear-o and phone calls . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . stars glow, hearts are sweet, and I realise I have to let it all go.  
**

"Bella?"

"Edward."

"Your ceiling is glowing."

"I know. Does it bother you?"

"Not really."

"Good, I'm glad. I wouldn't have wanted to take them down."

"I think they're nice – stars in the dark just like outside."

"That's why I got them. I like looking up at the night sky when it's filled with stars. It's – peaceful."

"Do you think maybe I like that, too?"

I turn to look at him then, but aren't really able to make out any of his features in the dark. "You might. I guess you'll never know unless you try it, uh . . . again."

"I'd like to try," he says, and I can see him smile as my eyes adjust.

"We will," I assure, and then turn to look at the window which is currently getting pelted with rain. "When it's less wet. And if that doesn't happen, then we can just take a good ol' shower in the rain instead of in the . . . shower."

"We'd get sick," he warns, but I can hear the amusement in his voice.

I shrug, and turn back to look at him. "That's inevitable living in Forks, I'm afraid."

He looks contemplative. "Do you have hot water bottles?"

"I have one," I say, "but we can share."

He smiles in the dark.

I turn back to look up at the stars, smiling, too.

**~o~**

The next morning is like yesterdays, but this time instead of leaving a note – which is really _not good_ – I lightly shake his shoulder.

Because this way –

Miscommunication? _What_ miscommunication?

"Hey," I say, softly.

He opens his eyes half-way, lids hooded both adorably and bedroom-eyes-y.

_G__ah_.

"Hi," he says sleepily, his voice low and husky from lack of use.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm going to work," I whisper, my hand lightly lying on his shoulder – his skin is warm. "I'll be back around 4, OK?"

He blinks up at me a couple of times, lifting a hand up to rub at his eyes before dragging it through his hair. He nods and then says, quite _sassily_ in my opinion, "No notes today?"

I mock scowl at the smirk on his face, because _really_, how can you be mad when he's so rumpled and drowsy, and just generally _warm_ looking?

You can't.

You just _can't_.

"No," I say, feeling a smile slip through the cracks of my façade. "I thought it would just be better to do it this way - less distressing."

He raises his eyebrows.

"I was quite stressed yesterday," I insist.

He grins up at me, and around a yawn says, "Really? I didn't notice."

I snort.

_Smart ass._

"Well, anyway," I say, shaking my head at him. "I just wanted to tell you." I look down at the watch on my wrist. "I better get going if I don't want James on my case. I really don't want to say there's been another family emergency." I ramble. "What if he starts requesting hospital letters?"

Edward looks thoroughly amused.

I face-palm as I start backing out of the room. "I, um, I'll see you later, then?"

Edward nods, sitting up in slightly in my bed so his back rests against the headboard. He carries on running his hand through his hair as he watches me go.

"So, uh . . . bye."

I swivel back around and almost lose my balance – my face flushes – but I manage to remain standing. Just as I'm about to step out of the doorway, he calls me back.

"Hey, Bella," he says quietly, and I turn once more to face him.

"Yeah?" I ask, equally as quiet.

He bites his bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth with his teeth before letting it go – a crimson red. My wide-eyes follow the movement; my heart starts to beat a little faster in my chest.

"C'mere," he whispers.

Did I mention – _gah_?

I swallow nosily as I make my way deeper into the room, hesitating at the foot of the bed. He makes a head motion as if to say, _closer_.

Right.

Closer.

_Um_.

I walk slowly to the side of the bed, and his green eyes stay on my muddy ones the entire way. I can't seem to tear my gaze away, even as I feel the heat bubbling in my stomach to rise into the apples of my cheeks to _flush_.

He immediately tangles one of his hands with mine and pulls me closer, until my hand lands on his chest over his heart. It's _racing_.

He lifts his head up, so I tilt mine down; my hair forming a little shield around us.

Then his mouth is _right there_ next to my ear, and his warm, apple-scented breath is hitting my neck. I bite my lip anxiously – copying his movement from a moment ago.

"You called me sweetheart," he breathes.

I don't comprehend for a moment before it clicks – _yesterday_, on the phone. I hadn't even thought about it – I'd just attributed the name to him.

Before I can respond, he's speaking again – his voice a low rumble that sends vibrations – and mini tornadoes – under my skin.

"I liked it."

_KABOOM_.

…

…

Ovaries?

_WHAT_ ovaries?

"Oh," I shakily breathe back, my hand fisting in his t-shirt.

One of _his_ hands suddenly moves to my chest – where my heart is _thrumming_ like a hummingbird's about to take flight. I can't find it in myself to be embarrassed over the fact that he can feel how he's affecting me though, because I can feel how I'm affecting him, too.

I close my eyes as his lips brush my ear lobe.

He whispers, "I think you have a sweet heart, too."

**~o~**

When I arrive at work, my legs are like jelly and my heart is still beating like a drum. There's thrill his touch ignites that I've never known before – a warming sensation his words evoke.

It's _amazing_.

It's _glorious_.

It's . . . not going to last.

My breath catches and my legs wobble for a totally different reason this time. I have to grip the door to my truck to make sure I don't fall down.

I think of his family, his friends.

How I'm not. Or anything close to.

Not when he remembers.

He belongs with _them_

And _not_ with _me_.

I know I should keep my distance, shouldn't form any emotional attachments because it's just doomed for _disaster_. Jake saw it, even with his not-so-good foresight.

And I know it – _deep down._

But it's hard to remain detached when he's telling me my heart is sweet.

**~o~**

Jake has sent me an email when I check my messages – _discreetly_ – at work. When I open it, I see there's a link for a wikki page included, and click it.

The pages title reads – _Edward Cullen._

I immediately press the little _x_ in the corner.

I go back to the message and see Jake's wrote a little note for me.

_Bells,  
Here's some info you can use.  
You're doing a good thing.  
I love you.  
~ Jake  
Xoxo_

His message gives me pause for thought, and I know in order for me to use information about Edward to jog his memory, then I'm going to need to _find_ information first.

Because as I've said before, I didn't even know the President _had_ a son.

Let alone anything _about_ said son.

But still . . .

I close the email down, and don't re-open it again.

**~o~**

I trudge up the stairs to my flat; tired from the day that really seemed to _drag_ so. I feel mentally out-of-sorts, and I really _hate_ being bogged down by a heavy mind.

I unlock my door, stepping inside warily. Once inside, I lean back against the wood and close my eyes.

"Bella?" Edward's voice says, sounding much closer by the time he has uttered the _'ah'._

He really does make my name sound very nice.

_Distance . . . must keep_.

I swallow as I feel his hands settle on my arms.

This may be harder than it seems.

I re-open my eyes again after a minute or two, seeing his face hovering mere inches from mine. He backs up a little once he can see my muddy brown again.

"Edward," I respond, and my tone is neither happy nor sad. It just . . . is. "Hey."

He looks at me closely, carefully. "Was James on your case today?" he asks, his mouth lifting slightly up at the corner. I think he might be trying to make me smile – I'm probably an open book right now. Renee said I never hid emotion well, that it always just played across my face in successions.

_Fantastic_.

I shoot him a strained smile – because it's all I can manage. "Just a long day," I respond quietly, pulling myself out of his grasp. I lean against the back of the couch as I avoid his eyes; taking off my shoes and coat, setting my bag down on the floor next to me.

Then there's silence.

And it's charged with discomfort.

"Did I . . . " he starts to ask, and I lift my head up and over to him. I look around him, but never focus on his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," I sigh sadly, and shake my head. "You didn't do anything wrong, I just – "

I break off.

"I just . . . " I hesitate. "I had a really crappy day."

I'm not necessarily lying – which is good because I _suck_ at it.

"Oh," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."

After about 5 minutes passes, I decide I can't take the harshly charged silence anymore and so quickly vacate to the kitchen. I notice the change immediately.

"You cleaned?" I ask, voice strained.

"Yes," he says, appearing at the doorframe. He hesitates. "Was . . . that wrong?"

I shake my head. "No, I . . . " I turn away from him, clutching at my middle. "You didn't have to," I say, quietly.

"I wanted to," he whispers, perhaps feeling no need to talk loudly when it's so silent.

"That was really nice of you," I whisper back. "Thank you."

"It's okay," he replies gently. "I just wanted to do something for you – after all you've done for me."

I close my eyes and am glad he can't see my face crumple.

_He has no idea._


	16. 15: Easy just isn't that easy

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **ellaryne**, **wannabeacullen09**, **Matthias Stormcrow, snowiewolf, Meteor Shower Twilight Sun **and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! *gives more cookies*

**p.s.** Another update is on the way ~ it'll be here a bit later. No fear! ;)

Where we left off: Bella's feeling torn when it comes to her house-guest . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . easy just isn't as _easy_ as it seems.  
**

_Previously . . . **  
**_

"It's okay," he replies gently. "I just wanted to do something for you – after all you've done for me."

I close my eyes and am glad he can't see my face crumple.

_He has no idea._

**~o~**

I stare at the counter top near me until my eyes start to hurt. I don't turn around – I can still feel his presence nearby. My mind is thrumming heavily at me again.

"Bella, can I – " he starts to say, but I cut him off.

"Clothes," I blurt out, still not turning around. "I need to, uh, get changed." With that, I swivel on the spot and quickly dart past him without meeting his eyes. I bolt into my bedroom before closing the door behind me. I sigh; feeling terrible once more.

I dress steadily and robotically, trying not to think about the man on the other side of the door, and what I must do. I should never have gotten so close to begin with – what did I think was going to happen?

I breathe, flopping down onto my bed and shoving my head between my hands.

_It's okay,_ I think, _he's only been here a few days. _

It'll be easy to pretend they didn't happen.

_Easy_.

I slap my hands on my knees once before getting up and going to the door. I hesitate at the handle, but nevertheless push it open; plastering a smile on my face.

Kind, but not close.

_Easy_.

I walk into the lounge cautiously, finding Edward sitting on the couch and running his fingers through his hair. He looks distressed.

My stomach clenches.

"Hey," I say quietly, watching as his head snaps up at the sound of my voice. "I was going to, um, order some food – if you're hungry." I stare down at my hands as I ask him, like they're the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.

"Sure," he says, voice strained.

I nod quickly and then realise I'm going to have to move closer to him to get the phone. I walk slowly into the room and go to pick up the phone that stands on the table next to him.

His hand unexpectedly covers mine.

I try not to flinch. Or gasp.

Or let my hand cover his in return.

_Easy . . . _

"You can talk to me, you know," he says quietly. "I'm here."

I stare down at our connected hands for a minute.

I realise he's right.

I _do_ need to talk to him.

About _him_, though. Not about me.

I nod, I let my eyes drift up to his.

I hold back a sigh.

"I do, actually. I need to . . . discuss some things with you – if that's alright."

The relief in his eyes is so palpable I feel like I could reach out and touch it.

"Of course it is," he assures, and squeezes my hand gently before letting go. I flex my fingers lightly, trying to utilise all the warmth is touch gave me before it disappears and I'm cold again.

Sparks on my fingertips.

Tornadoes under my skin.

"Okay," I say, clearing my throat slightly before picking up the phone. "I'll just be . . ." I make a motion toward the kitchen. He nods at me; smiles.

I go.

After calling the Ruby (best Chinese take-away ever), I dial Jake's number, chewing on my thumb while I wait out the rings.

_Ring, ring, ring._

_Ring, ring, ring._

_Ring, ring, ring – _

"_Hi, it's Jake – _

I open my mouth to speak –

– _I'm not currently here right now, so please leave me a message and I'll get back to – "_

I press the _end call_ button harshly – scowling down at the phone.

I need to discuss Edward _with_ Edward, without actually knowing anything about _Edward_.

_Awesome_.

I find it horrifyingly _hilarious_ that my life went from what it was, to what it is now.

I guess that discussion is out of the window for today, because –

I don't own a computer.

_What_? It's more common thank you think.

I stand in the kitchen, hesitant, deliberating on what to do. I turn the phone back and forth between my hands as I ponder. I can go and sit with him and I can be kind . . . but not close.

_Easy_, I think.

With newfound determination, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room once more. He's looking out of the window once I enter – it's not raining, for once – his hands clasped behind his back as his eyes peer out and scan the outside.

I set the phone down on the table silently. I cross to him after having a mini-argument with myself about whether I should alert him to my presence or not. I simply stand next to him, and peer over his shoulder to see what he sees.

"Not such a great view, huh?" I ask, looking out over the parking lot. My truck seems like a massive eye-sore. I wince, but then mentally stroke its metal ego.

Edward jumps about a foot in the air, apparently not having heard me enter.

I try to hold back my grin, but I probably fail.

"You scared me," he says softly, his hand on his chest as he looks down at me.

"Sorry," I shrug, but don't sound very sorry at all. I realise that it was only the day before last that we had this exact conversation, only the roles were reversed.

His green eyes smile at me as he catches his breath, and I look away quickly.

"So, um," I cough. "Would you like to go out?"

He hums, continuing to look at my face for a moment before turning to look back out the window. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

_Easy . . . _

"I would," he says simply, lifting his finger up to trace the cool glass.

I frown, realising it should have occurred to me to ask him sooner. "We can – " I start, but am interrupted by a knock at the door. "Chinese," I mutter, before scampering off to get it.

Once the social greeting is completed and the food paid for etc., I go into the kitchen to start plating up the food. I dish out chow mein and egg fried rice, sweet and sour chicken and corresponding sauce, and pancake rolls.

I go into the living room and hand him a plate. He thanks me and starts digging in right away.

I eye him as he eats, noticing that he's almost finished when I've barely started. "I can go and go you some more," I offer, already rising.

But he puts a hand up to stop me, standing up himself. "It's okay," he replies, "I can get it." And then disappears into the kitchen.

When he comes back and starts eating real quickly again, I tell him, "You should slow down, you might get sick if you eat too fast."

His fork pauses mid-air. "Sorry," he mumbles embarrassedly, the tips of his ears turning pink.

I shake my head and wave him off. "I just don't want you to get sick . . . " I trail off, and my brow furrows in thought. "Edward," I say, gaining his attention. "What do you eat when I'm at work?"

He drops his head; hiding his eyes from my view, and then mumbles something so low I don't quite catch it.

"Hmm?" I hum, leaning a little closer.

"I don't," he mutters.

My face pales. "What do you mean _– you don't_?"

He fidgets with his fork, starts pushing his food around on his plate, but doesn't answer.

"Edward," I say firmly, setting my plate down on the little coffee table. I get up from the chair and stand in front of him; I take away his plate and set it next to mine. Then I crouch down in front of him, and grasp his chin and lift it up so I can see him.

He looks at me wearily.

I raise my eyebrows in silent question.

"I mean I don't," he says, quietly. "I didn't want to . . . " he hesitates. " . . . eat your food – it's not mine."

I swallow noisily. "So you've only been eating when I've been here – when I have?"

He nods.

I let out a groan, and squeeze my eyes tightly shut.

"I'm sorry."

I shake my head adamantly. "Why are you _sorry_?"

He doesn't respond, just continues to watch me.

"Edward," I breathe, letting go of his chin and pushing my hands into my eyes until dizzying colours start to swirl in my vision. "Of course you should – that's what it's – I wouldn't have – I didn't take you in just so you could _starve_." I'm close to tears by the end of my mis-matched ramble.

"So you haven't eaten at all today – apart from right now?" I choke out around a lump in my throat.

"No," he says, voice small.

I breathe heavily.

_I've been starving my house-guest because I never told him he could eat._

I pull my hands away from my eyes, and don't even wait for the spots in my vision to fade before I'm throwing my arms around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. He lets out a surprised grunt as he falls back into the couch.

I bury my face in his neck, watching as a single tear rolls down my cheek and slips onto his skin.

"Don't ever go hungry again, okay?" I whisper. "There'll always be food to eat. _Mi casa es su casa,_ right?" I sniff, smiling sadly into his warmth. "What's mine is yours."

I feel his hands slowly wind around my waist; he pulls me into him. "Okay," he whispers, running his nose along my neck. "Okay."

I close my eyes and sigh, relaxing into him.

I was wrong earlier.

Detachment?

_Not_ easy.


	17. 16: Nighttime strolls, stars & singing

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **angelface12**, **seekerharmoney**, **Matthias Stormcrow, snowiewolf, Sky and Sea, Scammy, twiclare, celebritystar, Vanquish13, Evolutions Vampire **and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I really appreciate it. :)

Where we left off: Bella's determination to do the right thing didn't go as planned . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . we go to the meadow, stargaze and I (attempt) to sing.  
**

After Edward's confession about his lack of calorie intake while staying with me, I immediately set about making up for the absence.

I all but shove the plate of Chinese food back onto his lap after I depart from it, watching him swallow every bite until it's all gone. I take his plate from him again and dash back into the kitchen, only to return with it piled high from the remaining bits and pieces of food.

He looks at me, and then at the plate, eyes wide, but says nothing.

Once he's finished ploughing through his food, he slumps back against the sofa and lets out a sigh.

I immediately shoot up. "Are you still hungry? I could – "

"Bella," he cuts me off, a little chuckle escaping his lips. "I couldn't eat another thing."

I look at him doubtfully. "But you haven't – "

" – been eating," he finishes for me. "I've eaten when you have," he says, putting the empty plate on the coffee table. "I haven't missed out on much. I never really got hungry, to be honest."

My eyebrows pull high into my forehead. I gesture to his plate. "But you just – "

"I know," he agrees. He lifts his hand to scratch the back of his neck. "But I never really got hungry until you mentioned food."

My brows furrow. "Oh."

He pats the sofa cushion next to him.

I relent without much of a fight, walking the inches to the couch before flopping down next to him. We sit in companionable silence for a while, and it's nice – just to rest, and to not think about anything.

Like looking up at the glowing stars on my bedroom ceiling.

Like _peace_.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Edward asks unexpectedly, and my eyes pull open slowly – not realising I'd closed them in the first place.

I pick my head to look at him, only to find him already looking back at me.

"Uh," I stammer, watching the fading sun glinting in his eyes and making the green glow like kryptonite; infused with little flecks of gold.

I shake my head, trying to regain focus.

I debate whether to lie and tell him I forgot, but it occurs to me that this is something I can't do – _lie_ – and I'm pretty sure he'd be able to suss it out, so I simply say, with a slight smile, "It doesn't matter now."

And because he's none the wiser, he smiles back.

**~o~**

When 9 o'clock rolls around, I go to the window and peer outside. The rain has stayed away, and the skies are clear. I look upwards and – _full of stars._

It makes me smile to see them. Forks does, in fact, have perks. Being such a small city – _3,120 people_ – the light pollution is next to nothing, which means you get to see natural light instead of the artificial kind.

I quietly retreat from the window and appear at the doorway to my bedroom. I lean against the frame and watch as Edward scours his eyes along the lineaments of my place.

For some reason, this room seems to be his favourite.

I clear my throat to alert him to my presence, and he jumps a little.

"Bella," he smiles.

I wave at him. "Hey. I was wondering if you wanted to – wanted to go outside?" I say, gesturing the little window in my room. "You can see the stars – the real ones."

He looks up at my ceiling-stick-on stars for a minute, before bringing his eyes back to mine. "It's not raining?" he asks, a sparkle in his eye.

"For once – no." I reply, smiling, leaning my weight against the frame. "So, I guess we won't be needing that hot water bottle."

He laughs. "I guess so."

After dressing warmer for the outside cool air, we trudge our way to the front door. Just as I'm locking up, he says, "I wouldn't have minded, you know."

I pause my ministrations on the door handle, frowning down at the brass metal. "Wouldn't have minded what?"

I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, "Sharing the heat with you."

_Hot water bottle,_ I think, and am glad I'm turned around so he can't see the heat rising to my face.

"Oh," I mutter, swivelling the lock in place and blushing. "Me neither."

**~o~**

We walk to my truck in silence, the night air cool and refreshing on our uncovered skin.

"There's this place I like to go," I tell him, hesitantly, fiddling with my truck keys. "It's nicer there to star-gaze than it is here," I say, gesturing to the little patch of grass that's supposed to be a _garden_. "Would you mind?" I ask, looking up at him nervously.

He shakes his head, wisps of red catching in the moonlight. "I trust you," he says, simply.

I swallow hard.

_Don't_, I think.

**~o~**

We chug along at a slow pace. I don't feel the need to drive fast – not that this rust bucket _could_ – but that's beside the point.

Edward's staring out of his window, wide-eyed, as he takes in the dotted green all around and surrounding him. "Pretty," he comments, quietly.

I nod. "I guess so," I say, because living here for so long has skewed my perception of the green. "If you like all this green mush, then you're going to love this place."

I look over at him briefly to see him tracing the cool glass with his fingertip. "Your place?" he asks, shifting his body so its angled towards me.

A jolt of surprise filters through me. I chew on my lip. "I've never really thought about it like that."

"Why not?" he queries.

I throw him another brief glance – I really _should_ keep my eyes on the road, considering what happened last time – to see his eyes traversing the lines of my face – over and over.

The darkness hides the blood pooling to my cheeks.

I _hope_.

Maybe I should go and see a Doctor.

It's probably a serious issue.

I shake my head slightly. "I don't know," I reply honestly. "I guess . . . nature's supposed to be free, right? I don't think it should belong to anybody. It's not mine . . . it's just a place."

His silence greets me.

"I'm sorry," I say, embarrassedly. "That's probably stupid."

"It's not stupid," he utters back quietly. "It makes sense." Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn back to look out of the window again; tracing the glass over the green under his fingertip, but never spreading his whole palm.

Like he, too, understands the necessity to appreciate, instead of suffocate, or oversaturate.

**~o~**

When we reach our destination, I shut the truck off and climb out. Edward follows in pursuit and meets me around the other side.

We're faced with an ambush of greenery. "It's just through there," I say, referring to thus greenery. "I know it looks like it doesn't lead anywhere, but it does."

He looks at me, nods, and then takes my hand.

He gestures with the other toward the mountain of green ahead of us. "Ladies first," he says smoothly.

I snort. "Such a _gentleman_," I tease.

He squeezes my hand and bows a little. "Of course," he says, most properly. "My _lady_."

I let out a loud laugh, but internally, I'm sighing.

"Come on, my huntsman," I say, smiling as I tug him forward behind me and into the bushes. "Let's go find our castle."

**~o~**

About 10 minutes later, we find ourselves in the middle of the meadow.

"Wow," Edward says, awed, as he turns his head this way and that.

"I know," I agree. "It's really beautiful, huh?"

And _it is_ really beautiful. There is green every single which way your head might turn. Tall trees and bushes that encase the space in a protective bubble. Dashes of colour in the form of wildflowers, and crystals of white on the long reed of grass from the oncoming frost of the night.

The moon is bright and shining, letting us see the meadow in its best light.

"It is," Edward says, gaining my attention. "Really beautiful."

I turn to look at him – because no matter how many times I may see it, it never fails to awe me – to see him staring down at me with a small smile on his face.

I flush; his vivid green eyes the same colour as the space around us.

He sits down gently on the soft grass and I follow, running the smooth blades of grass between my fingertips. As if on cue, we both look up at the night sky at the same time.

_Starry, starry night . . . _

"You weren't wrong," Edward breathes, and before I can inquire, he continues, "It really is nicer to stargaze here."

"Told you so," I tease gently. "But it's better if you lie back, it kind of loses some of its fun when you have a bad neck," I say, gesturing to how our necks are strained to stare up at the sky.

He smiles at me sheepishly and without a word, lies back and then tugs on my hand to do the same.

Our fingers tangle comfortably over the grass, and as we look up at the midnight sky – studied with beautiful balls of fire – I don't remember a time when I've felt more relaxed, more at-ease.

More _myself_.

"What's that?" Edward asks, breaking the silence that had settled over us like a warm blanket. "That tune you're humming?"

"Oh," I mumble sheepishly, not even having realised I _was_ humming. I replay the tune back in my head. "Just a song I like."

He hums. "Will you sing it to me?" he asks quietly, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of my hand.

"Oh, well, I – " I stutter, turning my head to the side to look at him. He's looking up at the sky still, the bright stars glittering in his eyes like diamonds. He smiles like it's the happiest he's ever been.

And all of a sudden, I can't refuse him.

"Sure," I whisper, my throat tightening.

I start off humming shakily at first, before finding it evening out. Once I'm sure I can talk without sounding choked up, I sing softly into the cool air:

_Starry, starry night.  
Paint your palette blue and grey,  
look out on a summer's day,  
with eyes that know the darkness in my soul.  
Shadows on the hills,  
sketch the trees and the daffodils,  
catch the breeze and the winter chills,  
in colours on the snowy linen land . . . _

All the while he holds my hand – like he'll never let go._  
_


	18. 17: Something unexpected

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **xxDeadInsidexx**, **seekerharmoney****, snowiewolf, ellaryne, ****TeamCullen . RobstenLover, vickybooksxtwilightx** for reviewing last chapter!

* * *

**? POV**

**~ Two months previous ~ **

I am drunk.

As I stumble my way through the heady scent of smoke and alcohol, sex and desperation, I find it hard not to throw up in my mouth. Bodies push against my own as I stagger back and forth on unsteady feet; vision swimming. Unwanting hands catch in my hair and crawl down my chest, the smell of sweat and debauchery making my head ache and pound with the revulsion of it all.

Someone attempts to pull me back as I reach the exit, but I shove them away.

I stagger out into the cool night air, leaving the warmth of the tavern behind and crawling like bugs all over my skin. My head spins and my feet drift from left to right, right to left without needing or meaning to. I attempt to lean back on a lamppost I spy some feet away, but because my perception is likely skewed from the alcohol running through my veins, I fall on my backside instead.

I grunt as I topple over. The ground is cold and hard, and I think I just _broke_ my ass.

When I start laughing hysterically over nothing, it becomes very obvious to me.

I am drunk.

**~o~**

It starts raining.

The light drops of rain soon turn torrential, and for a while I don't move. I just sit there, staring ahead of me, but staring at nothing because the rain has covered everything with its wet – with its darkness and obvious doom and gloom.

When the warmth in my blood starts to fade, I pull myself to my feet and start stumbling in a vague direction. The direction of the place I'm staying at tonight. I don't know what it's called.

I didn't want to know the name

**~o~**

The priss woman at the desk looks at me disdainfully when I enter. I'm sure I don't look great, but _fuck_ if she has the right to look at me like that. Especially when she's working in a place like this.

_Stuck up, judging bitch._

I flip her the bird as I pass, smirking to myself once I hear her gasp.

**~o~**

Once inside my room, I pull down my hood and pull _off_ my drenched hoodie. I remove my sunglasses next – they obscure my face nice enough – and throw them down, not especially caring where they landed, or where they didn't.

I stagger over to the mini fridge in the dingy, mouldy-smelling room and grab the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels. I gulp it down until it's 3/4 of the way empty, and then trip my way over to the bed.

The mattress is cool and hard, and it creaks when I sit.

I lean against the wall, sipping the whiskey until my hand creeps under the pillow and finds the sharp edge of the knife. I run my fingertips over the blade thoughtfully before grasping the handle and pulling it out.

It shines in the moonlight.

I set the whiskey down and pull my sleeve up. I run my fingertips over my forearm until I'm about half-way up and then pause. I close my eyes, wondering if the humming I feel is because of _that_ or if it's just a side-effect of my inhibited state.

Nevetheless: _what goes in must come out._

I grip the handle of the knife tightly – so tightly that my knuckles turn bone-white – and take one more gulp of the amber liquid before positioning the blade above the designated spot. My vision is spinning and my heart is thudding just as my head is pounding.

_What goes in must come out._

The knife slides through my skin like butter.

* * *

**A/N:** o_O Bet you weren't expecting that when you opened that update, huh?

You: _Whoa_. A bit grim, huh, Cynical? I thought this was _humour_. I'm not sadistic, so this wasn't fun for me.

Me: Relax guys… everything happens for a reason, you know. I'm not sadistic either, but I might be a bit of a masochist. So, have at me. :D


	19. 18: To remember and secret loves

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **angelface12**, **Mrs. Smiles**, **seekerharmoney**,** xxDeadInsidexx, LaVonne Cullen**, **Matthias Stormcrow, snowiewolf, Sky and Sea, Jasperslittlesnack17, Anne, Nobody Special, **one **Anon **and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! You guys make me gush. :')

**p.s.** Last chapter seemed to throw you all off a little! Your theories are always interesting to read. :) And as I recieved the most reviews for last chapter from any chapter so far... I hope the surprise wasn't a bad one. ;)

Now we're back to Bella and her quirky self. She's not so morbid. ;) Gonna leave you in suspense about the "who" of last chapter was for a little bit...

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I try and make him remember and find out his "secret love".  
**

_One month after the accident  
_

My time with Edward flies by quickly. I think it might be because he's so easy to be with; spending time with him is as natural as breathing – to the point where I can't think how I'd ever been without him.

Jake gets back to me the day after Edward and I visit the meadow, and inquires about any progress made. I lie and tell him I've already started dropping hints to Edward in casual conversation to see if they have any affect.

I do start to do this though, after I gain the courage to click open – and _keep_ open – Edward's wiki page.

He has his own _wiki_ page for crying out loud.

It's quite lengthy, and there are numerous pictures of him in various suits. He often stands next to his father – the _President_ – smiling. But when I look closer, I can see his smile isn't genuine – I've seen it often enough – and his eyes . . . they look dead – hollowed out.

Sad.

My hear pangs in my chest, and I have to quickly scroll down to avoid spilling any tears.

Alice would never let me live it down.

Despite the size of the page, there is very little personal information about him. I find out he has two siblings – a sister and a brother, both older than him – and that he studied at Harvard.

_Harvard_, people.

It doesn't say what he studied, but it's heavily implied that he's to go into politics – just like his father.

Then there's a bunch of information that I find relates little to Edward, so I scroll down quickly, looking over my shoulder to make sure James isn't creepy watching me – as he does often.

Just as I'm about to close the page – sure I'd weeded out all the useful information I could use – a link at the bottom catches my eye.

_Edward Cullen's secret love?_

My eyes widen, and my heart starts to beat faster. I try to ignore the pain that suddenly grips me tightly, leaving me breathless for air – but I can't.

Unexpected tears spring to my eyes, and because I'm a masochist, I find my mouse has clicked on the link before my mind can tell it otherwise.

It takes me a minute to register what I'm seeing, as the picture that accompanies the small article is blurry – like it's a pap picture. My eyes lift quickly to scan the title:

_Swapping politics for piano?_

My eyes dart back down again and I can make it out this time. Edward sits – though it might not be essentially clear that it is him – at the bench of a large piano; his hands pressing down on the keys. His head is lowered and he's shielded by a hoodie – his body bent as if trying to hide, yet wanting to experience the music fully.

There's something both devastating and beautiful about it.

In my head, I note: _plays piano._

And then I click _**print**_.

**~o~**

I start the plan: Making-Edward-Remember (bit of a mouthful, I know. I'm thinking of shortening it to MER to save time) one week after our meadow visit. I feel I have sufficient information to make a start, so I do.

I start one night by putting on a heavily interlaced Government film (I know, I know . . . but it just seemed like the first obvious thing to do). I turn off the lights and sit next to him in the dark, watching him more than the movie.

Two hours later, and I'm switching back on the artifical lighting. "So, what did you think?" I attempt to ask in a casual manner.

He shrugs and leans back against the sofa. "It was okay, I guess," he says, lifting his hand to rub a long finger across his brow. "I don't think I'm a big fan of politics," he says, giving me a half smile.

My brows lift in surprise, but all I say is, "Me neither."

After that blow-out, I decide to delve deeper than just what is on the surface. I think of his siblings and wonder how I can incorporate them into a conversation.

But he provides the perfect opener, asking me one Sunday, while we were in the meadow (I suggested we go there while the sun was out so he could see it in the daylight. He had agreed with a mega-watt smile. I packed a little picnic blanket and basket, too) where my family is.

I give him the watered-down, but still truthful version. "My mom's currently travelling with Phil, my, um, step-dad," I almost cringe back from the word, it feeling strange on my tongue. "And my dad . . . well, my dad lives here in Forks, not so far away, actually."

He hums, looking contemplative. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

I shake my head. "Nope," I say, popping the 'p'. "Only child."

He cocks his head to the side, looking at me curiously. "Did you ever want any?"

"Yeah, I did," I say, nodding. "Still do, sometimes. I think it'd be nice to have that kind of brother-sister, or sister-sister bond with someone." I shrug and sigh, pulling out blades of green. "But I guess the grass is always greener, and all that."

He bites his lip, nodding, and appearing to think over my words.

"Do you think," I start quickly, realising I have the perfect opportunity. "That you have any siblings – somewhere?"

He looks down and starts picking at the crust of a sandwich he holds. "I don't know," he shrugs. "I guess anything's possible." And then he picks up the bread and takes a bite.

I retreated with a soft, '_oh'_, shot down once again.

I make numerous more attempts after that, but it's quickly becoming clear that they're getting me nowhere fast, and just generally – nowhere _at all._

**~o~**

"Jake," I say into the receiver, voice tinged in exasperation and desperation. "Nothing's working."

He sighs down the line. "I told you this wasn't a sure-thing, Bells."

"I know," I say, closing my eyes. "But I just thought . . . "

"I know, Bells, I know. And I thought it might help speed along his recovery a little along, too, but in essence, it's just not that simple. The tissues in his brain have to heal, and there's just no telling when that might be."

I knew this all already, and maybe it was stupid of me to think I could cheat somehow, and speed it up myself.

"What do I do?" I ask, voice small.

He doesn't speak for a moment, and when he does, his tone is very quiet.

"You know who he is," he says, voice hesitant. "I think you have to tell him."

**~o~**

I pace around my flat, still thinking of Jake's words a week later. Today signifies week four – it's been a whole month since I hit Edward with my truck.

And he still shows no signs of recovery.

I let out a frustrated sigh, tugging on my hair. I've been at war with myself for four long weeks over what to do, what to tell Edward and what not to tell him.

The, _what not to tell him_ side always seems to win.

**~o~**

It's the ending of week four, on a Saturday, that I suddenly remember something – something _important_.

It's early morning, so I go about my routine of disentangling myself from Edward's arms before darting off to get my bag. I rifle through the contents in the living room, before finding what I'm looking for.

I pull out the blurry picture and set it down on the coffee table. I shoot a quick glance behind me to make sure the bedroom door is still closed, and then go about my inspection.

The picture is the same one I saw on the internet the other week, but it still takes my breath away.

There's a stirring in my mind – _Edward's secret love?_

I tap my index finger on the pixelated piano, a surge of hope rising within me.

"Hey."

I just about jump a foot in the air, quickly stuffing the picture back in my bag. Heart pounding and face paling – feeling like I've just gotten caught with my hand in the cookie jar – I utter back a slightly breathless, "good morning" without turning around – needing to collect my emotions so they're not splayed across my face.

By the time he walks into the lounge and sits next to me, my face is the picture of early-morning-ease – I _hope_.

"You sleep good?" I ask distractedly as I set my bag on the floor and push it away discreetly with my foot.

He yawns, raising his arms in the air to stretch and letting out a groan. "I did," he says, settling one of his arms around the back of the couch where I sit. "I always sleep good," he hesitates before adding, "with you."

I melt, hiding my flushed – and secretly pleased – face in his t-shirt-covered shoulder.

**~o~**

I tell Edward I'm just popping out for a bit to get some groceries after fixing him some lunch. He nods back distractedly, but is more focused on devouring the curry in front of him than bidding me a goodbye.

I snort as I close the door. I wonder if all men like food as much.

I'm not really going to get groceries. I need a game plan. I need to see a man about a dog.

I need a piano.

**~o~**

Trudging back up the steps to my flat an hour later, my piano hunt was less that successful. It seems that Forks has only one music shop, and it barely contains a _clarinet_, much less a _piano_.

Grumbling to myself as I walk steadily upwards with a couple of plastic bags in my hand – the ploy was food, so I had to at least return with some – I run – _literally_ – into my neighbour; Mrs Wesley.

"I'm so sorry!" I squeak, leaving my fallen bags on the floor to help her up, and then handing her the plastic container she was carrying.

"Oh, don't worry about it Patricia, dear," she says back, soothingly. "I was just coming to give you these." She pulls back the lid of the container, and voila, there is a fresh batch of sweet pastries sitting there, looking all tasty and pretty, but I can't even bring myself to be excited about them, because I'm too down on not finding a piano for Edward and possibly ruining everything.

"Thanks, Mrs W," I say, giving her a weak smile.

She tilts my chin so I'm looking up at her instead of at the floor. "What's the matter, Patsy?" She asks, furrowing her wrinkled brow. "You're always so happy."

I shake my head and sigh. "It's nothing."

She eyes me carefully, and then asks, "Is it boy trouble?"

My eyes widen. "N-no," I stutter, "nothing like that."

_At least, __not in the way you think._

"Then what is it?" she asks patiently.

"Nothing," I mutter again, turning my eyes downward seeing as she's holding my face in position.

"Oh, pish," she admonishes, causing my eyes to shoot up to hers. "I know my granddaughter well enough to know when something's bothering her." She pulls me over to the stairs and sits us down. She grasps one of my hands in hers and says, "Now, tell grandma all about it."

And for whatever reason, I do.


	20. 19: Decisions

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **ellaryne,** **Anne**, **Saxa**, **snowiewolf, ****Matthias Stormcrow, Sky and Sea, cupcake12578, RobsTip, **one **Anon **and four **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! You guys make me sigh. :')

Where we left off: Bella's been dropping unsuccessful hints . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I finally decide.  
**

"And now it's been a month, and I still don't know what to do."

I finish my tangent in a rush of breath, closing my eyes tightly shut and locking my fingers together – afraid to see what Mrs Wesley's reaction might be.

The light feeling that eclipses my chest at having told someone everything, is soon drown out by the fear of what may come next.

"Oh, Patsy," the old woman sighs, and to my surprise I feel her hand on my back, patting in a comforting manner. "How do you get yourself in such tangles?"

My voice is as strained as my smile. "They just find me, I guess."

Her soothing pats continue as she says gently, "I think you know what to do already. You're just afraid."

I nod slowly, pushing my fingers into my eyes. "He's going to hate me."

"Well, then he'd be a fool."

My eyes snap open in surprise and I peer over at her through my fingers in disbelief.

"Don't look at me like that, dear," she says, smiling. "You've looked after that boy so well, he'd be foolish to throw it back."

I shake my head adamantly. "He would have every right," I insist. "I kept something from him, the most important thing he'll ever have."

Mrs Wesley looks at me, eyebrows raised in question.

"His identity!" I whisper-shout, shrugging from out under her hand to pace up and down the small space.

She shakes her head, and catches my jean-covered leg when I go to walk past her. "You had good intentions, you spoke to him about his life – even if he didn't realise it."

I open my mouth to protest. "But I could – "

"Maybe you didn't do the right thing, maybe you did," she cuts me off. "But do you think he'll remember anything even if you had told him who he was? Your doctor friend said about the . . . the . . ."

"The tissues," I supply.

She snaps her fingers together. "The tissues, yes! Until those are fixed, you could tell him all about who he is and his life before you hit – " She looks at me apologetically. " – before the _accident_," she reinvents. "And it still wouldn't have any effect on the lad." She shakes her head. "He'd see this life he allegedly lived – "

" – but he wouldn't remember living it." I finish quietly.

She nods at me enthusiastically, tapping the spot next to her again.

"But that doesn't make it any better," I sigh, flopping down next to her once again. "I lied to him – for all intents and purposes – and you can't build a foundation of trust on lies." I drop my head into my hands. "You can't build a relationship on lies," I say, more quietly. "And even if he doesn't hate me, how would he ever trust me again?"

Her hand goes back to rubbing my back as she asks, "Did I ever tell you about my late husband, George?"

I shake my head.

"Well, when your mother was two, I found out he was having an affair with another woman."

My eyes widen. "He was?"

She nods back in reply. "And I forgave him. It wasn't easy for me to accept, and at first I was so angry with him." She sighs. "But what you must learn is that life isn't simple, or as black and white as it seems. He broke my trust, and it took some time before I forgave him, but I did."

I look up at her, chewing on thumb. "And you trusted him – after?"

"I did," she replies, "not right away, but with time." She gives a little chuckle then. "What's that phrase? _Time heals all wounds_."

I look back down at the ground. "I don't think it's that simple."

"Oh, dear girl," she sighs, lifting my face up with her hand. "Nothing in life is simple – and what is, usually isn't worth much." A rueful look enters her eyes, like a little spark of life. "No, the hard things in life are what make it so grand – the things worth fighting for make it all worth it."

I don't reply, but inside I hope she's right, because it seems there's a long battle ahead of me.

"So you think I should tell him?"

"I think you should do what's best for you – and for him, whatever that may be."

I nod, biting my lip. I know I have to tell him. Too much time has passed already in deception and lies – without him even knowing it. Good intentions don't always equal a good outcome in the end, I see that now.

I swallow noisily. "I'm going to tell him."

"Good girl," she replies softly. "And if he knows what's good for him, he'll fight for you."

**~o~**

After hugging Mrs Wesley in goodbye – because she's really been the best help I've had in this situation – I walk on up the stairs to my flat. I can hear my heart in my ears increase its tempo with each step I take.

I pause outside my door, my palms suddenly sweaty. Thinking about how Edward will react is doing me absolutely no good, and I know that I need to just walk inside and say it, before I lose my nerve completely.

I pull on the knob and pull the door open. I step inside cautiously, peering this way and that. "Edward?" I call, crouching down to untie my shoes. I walk on over to the kitchen and place the bags on the counter.

"In here," he calls back, his voice coming from the living room.

I steel my nerve. "Right," I whisper, feeling my heart clench and my stomach fill with uncomfortable butterflies. I think back to Mrs Wesley's words – _"the hard things in life are what make it so grand – the things worth fighting for make it all worth it."_

_I hope you're right,_ I think, _because this isn't going to be easy._

"I need to talk to you about something," I say hestiantly, as I make my way to where he is. "Something important."

I pray he doesn't hear the shaky undertone to my voice.

And when I enter the living room, his back to me, I pray he won't hate me.

I clear my throat as I walk towards him, and once I stand in front of him, I open my mouth to speak, but the words abruptly die on my tongue.

He lifts his head from the printed-paper clutched in his hand.

And the look in his eyes makes my heart stop dead.

* * *

**A/N:** Eek! D: Hold onto your hats, folks, 'cause it's gonna be a windy ride...


	21. 20: Finding out who

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **arbitarygirl**, **snowiewolf**, **twiclare**, **N . York**, **Jasperslittlesnack17**, **RobsTip**, **ellaryne**, **Saxa**, **seekerharmoney**, **SoftBallGirl98**, ** Matthias Stormcrow, lizclaire . ec, DizzyIzzyCullen, Sky and Sea, 1stMysterywriter, xxDeadInsidexx, Scammy **and five** Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! You guys make me sigh. :')

**22 reviews** for last chapter alone! You guys out did yourselves! Seriously though, thanks a lot. :) That's the most reviews I've ever gotton on any chapter of any of my stories... ever. So thanks a bunch! You guys are ace. :')

Where we left off: (I ended on an evil cliffhanger and everybody groaned . . . )

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . Edward finds out his "who".**

My face pales as I watch his green eyes flash at me; his mouth thinned and eyebrows furrowed.

_No, no, no, NO._

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

"You have something to tell me?" he asks, voice low.

I feel _sick_.

I almost flinch back from his tone; too low, too steely.

"I – " I stammer, but find that I can get no words out. I simply stare at him; hopeless and afraid.

He regards me from beneath heavy brows for a minute, before looking back down to the article enclosed in his fist. I know what he sees. And even though I never told him his last name, the photo is enough proof that it's him.

"That's me," he says, voice still so quiet. _Too_ quiet.

"Y-yes," I stutter in a whisper, finding myself having unconsciously taken a few steps away from him.

"This was in your bag," he continues, not looking up at me. His voice is still so calm, and cool. But the straining in his arms and the redness rising up his neck prove he's anything but what he pretends to be.

Fury.

Steadily encasing his heart as fear encases mine.

I swallow noisily, but find there's nothing I can say back in response. Because it _was_ in my bag. Why reaffirm something we both already know – something so awful.

"You left it here," he says, dark eyes finding mine in the distance. I'm frozen – rooted to where I stand. "Did you want me to find it?"

I open my mouth to respond . . . but what can I say to that?

He answers for me. "No," he says, and his voice has gained a little roughness. "Of course you didn't want me to find it." He rises then, unfurling himself from the couch in one liquid movement that's so fluid, so out of context, that it just sets me on edge even further.

He takes a step forward.

I take one back.

"You've been letting me live this lie for a whole month, why stop it now, right?" he asks bitterly, a humourless chuckle escaping his lips.

I _do_ flinch this time.

His words sting.

I know he's right, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept that he thinks this thing – this thing we have is nothing but lies, and in that case, _false_.

Not even anything.

Tears burn the back of my eyelids.

_I did this,_ I remind myself.

He takes another step forward.

I take another one back.

He looks back down at the article for a minute, before looking back up at me. The storm in his eyes is _swirling_, he's hurting and being tormented – by _me_.

I blink against the waterfall.

I won't cry.

"I asked myself who I was every day," he says, voice hoarse like he'd been inhaling smoke all night. "I'd wake up in the morning, and the first thought in my head would be – Edward _who_?" He lets out a bitter, humourless chuckle. "And all this time you _knew_! You who – " He breaks off, his voice raising in pitch.

Too angry to continue.

"I'm sorry," I whisper out, the words choked.

He shakes his head, but his eyes never leave mine. And I can't bring myself to look away even though the pain misting over them is unmistakable – unbearable. "You don't get to be sorry," he says, spitting out the '_sorry'._ He takes another step closer, and when I take one back, I find my path is hindered by the wall behind me.

I'm stuck – cornered. And he approaches like a deadly, poisonous fog; descends on me like a lion on a lamb.

His arms rise on either side of me, palms flat against the wall.

Caging me in so I can't escape.

"I trusted you," he says quietly, and this time I can hear as the hurt creeps through the rage. "I trusted you, Bella!"

He slams his hand against the wall next to my head so _hard_ that I feel it in my bones. I clench my eyes tightly shut, my bones locking and stiffening in place.

All I can bring myself to say is, "I know."

He's breathing heavily – I can feel it on my skin. His arms brush against my shoulders and his torso is very near mine – allowing me to be warmed in his heat, like a one-person embrace. But this is so different to any other time we've shared close proximity over the past month – because this one is filled with lies, deception, hurt, anger and betrayal.

There is nothing positive about any contact we share now, because it's all tainted.

Because of _me_.

But then I think that maybe it's always _been_ tainted, but I'd just been trying to ignore it at the time.

It makes my skin grow cold.

Past touches suddenly plummet in meaning, and value.

"You know," he repeats in disbelief. "You _know_."

And his voice is suddenly closer when he says, "You don't know _anything_."

I bring my bottom lip into my mouth and bite down _hard_. My insides quiver and bleed water, and it's as if my world has suddenly been tilted, and now it spins in the wrong direction.

_He hates me_, is all I can think.

"Open your eyes," he says, and his voice is softer. "Look at me."

I pull my eyes open, unable to refuse and undoubtedly owing him. His face is near mine, and for the first time I take note of how pale he seems, how his hair is especially tousled – probably by aggravated-hand-running – and how his eyes seem a little damp.

He holds the paper I'd printed off in between two of his long fingers; holding it so I can see.

"Who am I?" he demands quietly, staring into my eyes.

"You're Edward," I finally manage to choke out, my hands fisting and unfisting at my sides.

He shakes his head. "No," he says softly. "That's not what I asked."

I breathe out heavily, my eyes darting to the single piece of paper clutched between his fingers; the piece of paper that told him before I did.

I suddenly know what he wants, perhaps _needs_ . . . to hear.

"You don't need to wonder who you are anymore," I say sadly, because I never knew he'd been feeling so lost within himself. I take a deep breath before continuing. "You're Edward Cullen," I say quietly, looking away from the paper and up into his eyes. "You were born in Chicago before moving to Washington with your family. Your dad is the President of the United States, and you have two siblings – both older.

"You went to Harvard University for four years, but I don't know what you studied . . . though it's thought that you'll go into politics – just like your dad." I pause, but he doesn't say anything.

I look away when his eyes become too intense.

"And lastly . . . you like to play the piano," I say quietly, flicking my eyes at the article from underneath my lashes. "At least, I think you do."

I begin chewing on my lip again when he doesn't say anything. I can feel my insides coiled tight – ready to snap – and I wonder how he must feel.

Having been lied to by the only stability – _person_ – you thought you had.

A breach of trust.

Betrayal.

Was any of it really true?

Was any of it honestly _real_?

I want to tell him everything we ever did, every conversation we had and touch we shared was always and completely, 100 per cent genuine.

But how could he believe me?

When the whole basis of our relationship was built on lies?

A breach of trust.

Betrayal.

I shut my eyes again, feeling little trickles of water swell on the lids.

"Why would you keep this from me?" he whispers, and it's as if all the fight has gone out of him as he slumps against me – his head now resting on my shoulder.

His tears dampening the fabric of my t-shirt.

I dig my hands into the wall behind me when they threaten to reach up to touch him. "I – " I whisper, "I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"Stop saying sorry," he breathes onto my neck, "just tell me _why_."

I allow my head to tip forward just a little, allowing the tip of my nose to touch the tip of his hair. "I was – " I dig my hands into the wall behind me until my nails break. "I . . . I don't know."

He lifts his head to look up at me then, so I move back – no more than a hairbreadth of space between us. "Don't give me that," he says, sounding angry – his eyes burning like flame, and ash and smoke. "Not after all this." He nods his head at the space in between, indicating _us_.

His eyes startle and shock me.

They tell me not to lie.

Not anymore.

"I – " I swallow noisily. "I . . . I was afraid."

"Of what?" he prompts.

I lift my hands from the wall and rub them roughly through my hair and down my face, my nails digging into my flesh in the form of punishment, before he removes one of his hands from the wall and catches both of mine in a strong grip.

And highlighted by the sun filtering in through the window is a raised and slightly jagged scar on his arm I'd never noticed before.

"Of what?" he asks again, this time more softly; his eyes running over – no doubt – the red lines sprawled across my cheeks from my broken nails. He removes his other hand from the wall beside me, and almost sends my heart shattering when he smooths his fingertips over the angry marks.

He is devastation and sorrow in one entity.

I take a breath.

"Of letting you go," I breathe, my eyes finding his. "Of being alone again."

He looks at me sadly. "You think I would have left?"

Disbelief colours my tone when I say, "Of course you would have! You have family, a life and – " I splutter. "Why . . . why would you stay with a stranger?"

He drags his fingertips down my cheeks until he's holding my chin. "Everybody would have been a stranger to me then – even my own family. And still now. But I'd like to think we weren't strangers anymore." He looks pained, and a brief flash of bitterness flickers in his eyes. His hand drops from my face as he backs up a little and says, "I just wish you would have told me."

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, guilt consuming me, before re-opening them again. "I was coming to tell you," I say, voice small. "I know it's four weeks too late, but I was going to tell you everything – today."

He runs a hand through his hair roughly. "But how do _I_ know that?" he asks, his own eyes closing for a moment and sending his long lashes fanning out over his pale cheeks. "I don't have anything but your word, and I'm sorry, but your word hasn't exactly proved trustworthy so far," he mutters darkly, turning around abruptly so I'm left to stare at his back.

I don't know what to say.

I think I've broken what we had.

Another tears rolls down my cheek when I whisper, "You hate me."

His back tenses, and another bitter chuckle escapes his lips. He lets out a groan. "If only I did," he utters, spinning back around to face me. His eyes are the darkest green I've ever seen, and I try not to flinch when he walks towards me again, stopping mere inches away.

He looks down at me.

I look up at him.

"I don't hate you," he says, face crumpling. "Even after all you've kept from me." He shakes his head. "How could I hate you?"

"It would only be fair," I whisper around the lump in my throat.

He smiles at me then, but it's not like the smiles over the past month. It's strained, forced, and it looks painful when it pulls at his lips. "Life isn't fair," he says lowly.

_No_, my mind whispers_, it isn't._

"But you don't trust me."

He doesn't reply, just looks away.

And it's all the answer I need.

It hurts, but I can't blame him. If anything, I'm just supremely grateful he doesn't hate me.

I swallow noisily, my hands once again twitching at my sides. "What happens now?" I ask in a whisper – the air around us too fragile for anything other than the stillness.

His head tilted to the side, he looks ahead of him. His eyes seem far away, and when he answers, so does his voice.

"I don't know," he says, sounding so detached from the situation itself that it frightens me.

I continue to stare at the side of his face, unmoving except for the sore muscle in my chest. When he turns his head back to face me – slowly – and his eyes find mine, the emotion in them is unreadable.

"I need – " he starts to say, but is cut off by a heavy slam against the door.

Both of our heads snap in its direction.

One more slam, and then –

The door is forcibly pushed open – the hinges snapped off.

Over a dozen people suddenly swarm in. They're decked all in black – equipped with mass amounts of armour.

And guns.

So many guns.

We're both frozen.

"Don't move!" A voice is shouting out. "Get her on the floor – now!"

And then suddenly, I'm being pinned to the floor, my head knocking forcibly on the ground.

The darkness swallows me without sympathy.

* * *

**A/N:** *wipes brow* It was exhausting writing this, I hope I didn't disappoint anyone! D; *anxiously awaits your thoughts*


	22. 21: Hurting

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip**, **N . York, LaVonne Cullen, Sky and Sea, cupcake12578, MARIANNA, ellaryne, Jasperslittlesnack17, Saxa, Anne, live-love-learn-laugh, snowiewolf, celebritystar, DizzyIzzyCullen, vickybooksxtwilightx, lizclaire . ec, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, Scammy, angelface12, Matthias Stormcrow, Melissa, seekerharmoney, 1stMysterywriter, Mrs. Smiles**, one **Anon** and one **Guest **for reviewing last chapter! You're all wonderful people. :)

We passed the **200** review mark last chapter! I might have squealed a little (a lot). Thanks so much for your continued support!

Where we left off: Edward found out his "who" and there were unexpected guests . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I hurt.  
**

The next few moments of my life – hours? Minutes? Days? – pass in a blur of stolen seconds of consciousness, and fragments of dark pieces puzzling themselves together again until I'm out cold once more.

My head throbs against the oncoming flashes of light – present time shown in brief and uncomfortable slow blurs. I blink and there's a picture. I blink again, and it's gone.

There are noises, too. Muffled, unfathomable and indistinguishable; it's impossible to know who's speaking because in the moments of this slow life, I hardly recognise anyone.

I think perhaps I might catch a glimpse of Edward at one point, but it's gone again before I can be sure.

_Edward . . . _

My body is tossed somewhere – manacles are secured tightly around my wrists. I feel caged in my blindness; vulnerable in my inability. I'm thrown from side to side – sharp corners and angles digging into me. I ache, I might moan or cry, but nobody seems to notice.

Then I'm being dragged across something – it seems a long distance.

Deposited somewhere, cold seeping under my skin.

A pop of light, and then darkness.

Stillness – quiet. There is nothing but the absence of everything.

In between blurred consciousness and blackouts, I cry.

**~o~**

The dull throb in my head finally wakes me; properly this time.

My eyes pull half open, my vision fuzzy around the edges. There seems to be bright light all around me and I cringe away from it as much I can, the throb raising in vivacity.

My eyes are nearly caked shut from dried salt water, and my nose feels stuffed. My throat feels raw and there's an uncomfortable ache resounding throughout my whole body.

I groan as I try to move my arms, realising they've been manipulated to stay behind my back. My wrists are sore – the claps around them tight. My shoulders burn from the way they've been twisted back.

I don't remember ever being this uncomfortable.

Realising it's useless to try and fight the pain, I slump my body down in hopes that the ache might ebb a little.

It doesn't.

Fresh tears spring to my eyes – my mind in a mess. My thoughts are tangled and loud, each time I try to focus on a specific one, another trips over and starts shouting at me. This causes my brain to throb until it feels like it's going to burst out of my skull.

Deflate of its blood and then bleed out of my ears.

Instead, I close my eyes and try not to think of anything.

There's something wrong, though.

Something terrible has happened.

My wrists shuffle against the cool, hard metal wrapped tightly around them.

And I'm in trouble.

**~o~**

It could be minutes later – but it feels like hours – when a click vibrates through the room. For a moment, I don't even bother to look up; too tired, too drawn, too hurt.

I sniff pathetically.

A voice says, "Good. You're finally up."

My caked eyes snap open.

A whiz of pain shoots through my head at the light, and if my hands were free I'd be face-palming. I lift my head up slowly – neck aching – and blink many times in quick succession. When the blur starts to fade, I notice a single form stood in front of me – a man.

_Edward!_ My pained mind shouts eagerly, _Edward!_

But when my vision returns fully, it's very clear that's it's not.

The smile that had unconsciously pulled up my lips drops.

He's very broad, and his eyes are dark – _too_ dark – almost _black_. He oozes intimidation without even batting an eyelid.

This is most definitely _not_ Edward.

"Isabella Swan," the man drawls out slowly, slapping a file down onto the table in front of me I hadn't noticed before now. I look down at it momentarily, before looking back up at him. He stands on the opposite side of the desk, arms folded. "Daughter of chief of police, Charlie Swan," he continues, oozing patronisation. He pulls out a chair and flips it around, so the back is to his front, and peers at me closely. I shy away from the dark depth of his eyes. "Gotta admit, didn't see the child of a law _enforcer_ as a law _breaker_ – this is a new experience for me." He grins at me in the too-bright light, and I flinch back.

_I broke the law?_

_I broke the law . . . _

_I broke the law!_

My mouth goes dry.

I swallow hard, and his eyes follow the movement of my throat. "All coming back is it, sweetheart?" he asks lowly, his eyes darting back to mine again.

I breathe out, "I don't know what you're talking about."

He looks at me incredulously before letting out a great big, belly laugh – his fist slamming down on the table-top. My heart speeds up, my wrists chafe against steel with the need to _get out_ and _get away._

"Funny, funny, kid," he says, still guffawing, "this one." He looks to the side of him and points at me. Confused, and more than a little freaked out by this whole situation, I look to the side of me, too.

. . . Only to be met by my own reflection.

I startle slightly, my eyes widening. The whole wall is one giant panel of mirror.

I take a minute to take in my reflection – my bedraggled hair and twisted limbs, puffy eyes and red nose. The expression on my face is a mix of emotions; shocked, confused, hurt, sad, angry.

A gash on my head.

Oozing red.

"Oh, yeah," the man says, and I jump, momentarily having forgotten he was even there. "Sorry about that." He doesn't sound the _least bit_ sorry. "Not meant to happen, but sometimes these things can't be avoided."

And I have the distinct impression that it _could_ have been avoided.

Only nobody cared enough _to_ avoid it.

I turn back to the man; face unreadable.

My fingers flex in their hold; growing numb and cold.

"Why am I here?" I ask, voice gritty and rough – sick of this man and his games. "Where is _here_?"

He raises his eyebrows, like he's surprised, and leans back in his chair. His expression finally sobers up. "You're here," he says, voice steely, "because you committed a felony – a really fucking big felony in fact – got it, princess?"

I swallow thickly, my heart hammering in my chest.

"And if anyone is going to be asking the fucking questions around here," he says, eyes pitch black and leaning forward toward me on his elbows, "it's going to be me. We _clear_?"

I don't reply. I'm fighting the urge to slink back into myself.

"I said!" he yells suddenly, slamming his fist down on the table again – this time much harder. "_Are we clear_?"

"Yes!" I reply quickly, shakily, not being able to contain my flinch this time.

He stares at me for a moment, before easing back in his chair once again. He smiles at me, like nothing just happened, and taps the folder in front of us with his finger. "Good," he says, "then we should get along just fine."

My eyes dart to his and then to myself in the mirror; my eyes are wide with terror and my body shakes just so – mimicking the tremble under my skin.

And then a drop of red escapes from the wound and trickles down my cheek like one lone, bloody tear.

* * *

**A/N:**

:'( Poor Bella...

This chapter is short, yes. But it just felt like the right place to end.

In regards to updates, I'm thinking one every two days now, as the story is moving along a bit more. Suspense is good, right? I think so...

Updating at 6:00 AM my time because I didn't sleep a wink last night, and so thought I might as well get this out to y'all. (I'm sick. My tonsils have decided to make themselves really painful, making it almost impossible for me to get comfortable (or swallow), and so sleep.) And on top of that, my nose has decided to play tap and won't stop leaking (TMI, right?). I'm pretty sure I've used up all the tissue in the house. As you can see, I'm having a little pity-party for myself, which is perhaps why this chapter is so sad...

Meh. I'll see you guys Monday. Feel free to review/lurk/read ~ whatever floats your boat.

Much love,

~C  
Xoxo


	23. 22: Unethical and requests

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **LaVonne Cullen, Sky and Sea, snowiewolf, CullenLover, N . York, saxa, seekerharmoney, angelface12, RobsTip, TeamCullen . RobstenLover, celebritystar, LoveACullen, Matthias StormCrow, **one** Anon -** (who made me smile when he/she referred to Edward as Bella's nickname for him _– Mole_. :')) and one** Guest **for reviewing last chapter! You're all lovely people. :)

Thanks so much for all of your get well wishes! I'm feeling much better. :) Sorry for not replying to reviews, I've been mostly sleeping away my sickness the whole weekend. ;3

Where we left off: Bella's in trouble . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . things get unethical and my audience is requested.  
**

"I'll be back. Don't try anything funny."

I don't reply, I just sit there, staring numbly down at the cold table in front of me. It's steel, motionless and expressionless – I think it must feel like me.

Everything the man with the too-dark eyes has just said to me seems to shoot straight past my head, only to turn back around and enter it in a misguided ball of confusion. Terms such as, _imprisonment_, _serious felony,_ and_ possibly life,_ hit the corners of my brain.

Wincing, I rub one of my sore wrists, scanning the red marks and cut skin with little emotion or feeling.

"_I guess you won't be needing those anymore," he said as he approached me. I fought the urge to cower away when he moved behind my back and started undoing the cuffs._

_I didn't respond._

_He paused just before removing them fully. He spoke threateningly in my ear, "Don't get any ideas," he said, squeezing my wrist just so. I winced, letting out a little gasp of pain. "Any kind of abuse shown or implied and I swear to God, you'll be sorry."_

_Abuse! I wanted to scream, how could I abuse anybody like this?_

My body feels utterly and completed _drained_ – as does my mind. And all I want to do is go home, go to bed, and be warm and cosy and safe, with little _Mole_ buried against my stomach.

But that's not going to happen – never _is_ going to happen again.

I drop my head down onto my folded arms, letting tears soak the sleeves of my shirt. The mirror looms to the side of me, and I just know people are watching me from behind it; know I look pathetic – weak, even.

But I don't care.

All I ever wanted to do was help Edward, but it turns out I shouldn't have tried in the first place.

My heart hisses angrily at me.

And . . . I know that if I were to start this whole month over again, there isn't one thing I would change about my time with him.

I helped him then, and I'd help him now, regardless of how severe the consequences might be.

He made me the happiest I'd been in a very long time.

And I think I made him happy, too.

**~o~**

Time passes, without the man returning to the room. I'm glad and I'm not, I'm restless and I'm fatigued. My head throbs, my heart throbs – my neck stings.

_The president wants answers,_ he had said, just as he'd pulled out a pocket knife and proceeded to press it against the side of my face, and then push it against the pulse point in my neck, _and I'm to give them to him – at any cost._

He'd grilled me, threatened me, circled me like a predator. While I was left helpless, knowing I could do nothing.

"_Here's the thing," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Mr. Cullen seems . . . out of sorts – for lack of a better word. When our team arrived, he refused to go with them." He raises his eyebrows. "Wouldn't even let the nurse check him out."_

_I ignore the fact that he's implying I hurt him in some way._

I did_, I think, _but not purposefully.

"_He – " I cut off, swallowing thickly as I eye his fingers twitching impatiently on the blade of the knife. "He has . . . amnesia."_

_His eyebrows rise further into his forehead at my confession. "Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning forward in his chair. "This _is_ interesting." He makes a motion for me to continue, sliding the knife down the side of my neck when he sees me hesitate. _

"_I hit him," I hurry, "with my car."_

_He let out a guffaw at his, and I flinched back. "Things just keep getting worse for you, don't they, sweetheart?"_

After that, I'd told him all that Jake had told me about the type of amnesia he had – struggling to remember specific details, panicking when he pushed the cold metal of the knife against my skin when I paused.

Blood trailing sticky and wet down the side of neck.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to weep. But I'd be damned if I helped fuel this little power trip he was so obviously getting off on.

I reach my hand up to touch the side of my neck, flinching back at the littering of cuts there – still weeping. I lift up my other hand to touch the wound on my head – it's not bleeding anymore, but my head still pounds. I wonder if this is how Edward felt when he woke up after I'd hit him, and immediately feel a slew of guilt.

How can I blame the President – Edward's _dad_ – for doing this to me? It's unethical, yes – completely – but I kidnapped and kept – for all intents and purposes – his son for a whole month while he and his family – Edward's _family_ – mourned his loss and perhaps they thought – even death?

I drop my chin to my chest and let my hands fall from my wounded skin.

Artificial, superficial pain.

**~o~**

The sound of the door unlocking snaps me out of the semi-daze I'd been under. My eyes grow wide as I stare down at the table top – too afraid to look up.

Footsteps approach upon me and my heart increases in tempo the nearer they get. My body tenses tight like a coil as harsh hands grip my shoulders and forcibly pull me up and out of the chair, and my body cries out in pain. "Time to go," the same man's voice from earlier is saying, sounding wholly bored. I bite my lip raw, but no words escape my throat as he cuffs me once again – my wrists revolt in pain – and starts to yank me forward toward the door.

We pass through a long, cold and dark hallway. The ground feels like stone underneath my feet, and the air around me is frightfully chilly; nipping at the wounds on my neck.

We pass through another door and I'm almost blinded by the bright light. We're outside. It feels like I haven't been outside in eons, and despite everything, the fresh air on my skin, and invading my lungs, is most and absolutely _welcome_.

I stumble along the cobble on unsteady feet, being yanked along at a pace that is too fast for my tired and deprived body to keep up with. The man that yanks me along lets out a growl of frustration, and I try to quicken my steps, the blood on my neck a painful reminder of what he can do when provoked – and even when _not_.

The outside air disappears as I'm shoved into a van – a vague memory of being tossed around makes me feel as if I've been here before. The man gets inside with me, and I find several other people in here with me, too; all dressed in black, all holding one weapon or another. They stare at me, and I shy away from them.

"Where are we going?" I barely manage to ask, my voice all but a whisper.

The man's hands tighten on my wrists, and his voice is a revolting coo when he says, very near my ear, "Your audience has been requested."

_With who?_ I think, and he goes on like he heard my silent question.

His voice is amused when he says, "With the President."

* * *

**A/N:** Oh... daddy Cullen's up next. I wonder what he has to say...?


	24. 23: The Presidential treatment

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip, Matthias Stormcrow, lizclaire . ec, celebritystar, snowiewolf, seekerharmoney, 1stMysterywirter, Saxa, Evolutions Vampire**, one **Anon** and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

Turns out I can't keep to my own idea of updating once every two days instead of one a day... guess I'm as anxious as you guys are to find out what happens next! ;)

Where we left off: Bella's not getting treated very nicely, and it's all looking very bleak . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I meet the President.  
**

The ride seems to pass too quickly after that; suspense and dread bubbling uncomfortably in my gut, because there is no way the outcome of this situation is going to be a good.

I swallow hard when we come to a stop, only prevented from being thrown into the side of the van by the dark-eyed man holding me down. The doors to the van are suddenly thrown open, and I wince as he slaps his hand across my neck and pulls me out into the daylight.

I'm once again blinded by it, but only for a second, as the next a blindfold is being placed securely over my eyes.

I don't ask, and nobody tells me why.

**~o~**

The trip to wherever we're going is quiet, only punctuated by the sound of my loud breaths. My feet stumble – _of course_ – and my heart trips in my chest.

Then we're stopping, and my heart follows in pursuit.

"Felix," another man's voice greets, sounding strangely familiar.

"Sir," is "Felix's" rough reply, "where do you want her?"

"There is fine," the voice says back, and then there's a stilted silence. "That will be all, thank you." More silence, and then a sigh. "You can go now."

I almost smile at the emphasis on the _now_.

But I refrain, because there's really nothing funny about this situation.

After the door closes, I'm left vulnerable by the blindfold. I don't know who stands in front of me or who just spoke . . . but I can take a good guess.

_Frick!_ I think_, please don't kill me!_

I just may be a teensy-bit hysterical.

In my head, anyway.

Being irrational and possibly crazed out loud would do me absolutely _no_ favours.

The sound of a chair creaking and then – "You can remove that . . . cover." His tone betrays no emotion, and this makes me even more nervous. Nevertheless, I untangle my sight from the darkness and pull the offending object away, blinking lots of times because the light stings.

When my vision clears, my eyes take in desk, the wide space around me, the huge _flag_, the chair _behind_ the desk, before finally taking in the man himself.

My breath leaves me in a quick _whoosh_.

The President. In front of me. Mere meters away.

And it's so easy to see Edward in his face.

His hair is golden, and his eyes are sky-blue . . . but his skin holds that same paleness, and his face, that same square-structure.

This is most definitely, Edward's _dad_.

"Isabella," he says, his eyes flicking to me, his hands clasped together on the front of the desk.

"Mr. President," I choke out after a silence that his speech seemed to demand, swallowing thickly.

He says nothing for many minutes, and the clock on the wall seems especially _loud_. I fidget on the spot, my legs shaking.

"Why don't you take a seat?" he asks, his voice unexpectedly soft. He motions to the chair opposite him and it takes me about 10 seconds before I can get my feet to co-operate. I perch on the chair nervously, looking down at my hands as I twist them together, blanching at the bruises forming that I hadn't noticed before.

I look back up quickly.

And seeing his face, so tight and drawn and sad – so _Edward_-_like_, that I can't help but blurt out, "I'm sorry."

He looks surprised. "You're sorry?"

I nod quickly, images of his family weeping flashing in my mind. "I never meant to hurt you or your family and – "I break off, my breath hitching, "I definitely never intended to hurt . . . Edward."

His eyes tighten when I say his son's name, and I wince.

I look back down at my hands, feeling my nails digging painfully into my skin but not being able to stop them. I hold my breath; not breathing until my lungs cry out for air.

"You are not at all what I expected," he says finally.

My eyes widen, but I say nothing – unsure if this is a bad or a good thing or just a . . . thing.

"Tell me everything," he demands.

"I told . . . that man," I whisper, looking up quickly.

He nods. "You did, but I would like to hear this for myself." He taps his index finger against the wooden desk, _twice_, and I watch as his eyes trail to the wound on my forehead, and then to the cuts on my neck. His eyes harden. "Apparently, my son has amnesia."

I let out a breath and then I . . . just tell him everything – just like he asked. I tell him about the night I hit him with my car, how it had been pouring heavily, and I should have pulled over but I didn't, and I didn't see him, and when I did, it was too late.

I tell him I looked after Edward and made sure he went to the hospital the very next day. When I assured him the amnesia wasn't permanent, there was a palpable relief in his eyes.

When I tell him I initially had no idea who Edward was, he doesn't believe me.

"Honestly, sir," I implore, quietly but earnestly, "I have no idea what goes on in the world outside my own . . . certain space." I bring my thumb into my mouth, biting down anxiously. "The outside world just doesn't – _" or didn't, _I think " – hold any interest for me. " I shake my head. "Not in the way of living the lives of other people . . . I was just content to live in my own."

He narrows his eyes, shifting his head to the side and regards me; trying to decide if I'm being truthful or not. Finally, he must decide I am.

"Okay," he says, giving a curt nod, "continue."

So I do, and I tell him how I struggled whether to tell Edward who he was after I found out, inform him how I saw his family on the news and how I was going to call but then just . . . couldn't.

He doesn't interrupt me, though he looks like he wants to at times. He just lets me say my piece, his hands tightening into fists at times and then . . . relaxing at others.

When I tell him he wasn't eating while I was at work, I think he might let out a tiny, rueful smile; muttering something like, _mother's son_, under his breath.

It causes me to momentarily falter.

"I decided to tell him," I say quietly, nearly finishing my story. "My neighbour . . . she encouraged me to do the right thing." I smile a little, thinking about Mrs. Wesley. "So I went upstairs, went into my flat, but . . . " My smile falters. "He'd already beat me to it."

The President raises his eyebrows.

"That . . . that bit of research I did beforehand? Well, he found it. And he . . . " I hesitate, wincing. "He wasn't happy with me, which is completely understandable." I bite my lip, moving my eyes to the floor. "I had been lying to him for a whole month."

After a minute of quiet, I sigh and look back up at him. His eyes are watching and waiting. "And then?"

I shrug lightly. "And then this," I say, gesturing my hands about the space briefly. "Your men busted my door down and then knocked me down." My hand drifts up to my forehead on instinct, touching the large scab. "The next thing I know, I'm in that room with that man, and he's – " My voice breaks, cutting me off, memories of the sharp knife on my skin making my skin hurt; his eyes making my skin crawl. "And then this." I repeat hollowly, my hand dropping back onto my lap.

The President lets out a large sigh.

"I know what I did wasn't right," I hurry on, "And I'm really sorry to you and to your family for all the pain I've caused you," I say in earnest, looking right into his eyes so he can see just how much I mean it.

"I just wanted to help him," I whisper, dropping my eyes. "I thought I was helping him."

And then, letting out a breath and squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I say, "I'm prepared to take any consequences you have lined up for me, sir."

The chair creaks then, and I flinch back from the noise. His footsteps are light on the carpet, but I know they're coming closer – to _me_, and dread immediately bathes my whole body in red.

The President's hand is suddenly covering both of mine as they fidget violently in my lap – stilling their movement. I hold in my gasp, but don't open my eyes.

"You're not a bad person, Isabella," he says quietly, lowly. "I can't say I agree with all that you did, but I can't lie and say I think you're something you're not, either."

My eyes slowly pull open, and I'm surprised to find tears beading on the lids. "How can you be so nice to me?" I whisper in disbelief. "You should _hate_ me."

He smiles sadly at me. "How can I hate someone who cared for my son as you did?" he asks softly, and then utters, seemingly to himself, "Especially when I was doing such a terrible job _myself_."

He sighs, looking up at me from his crouched position. "Thank you for telling me the truth," he says, squeezing my hands lightly – not at all like the man or "Felix" as the President had called him – had done. "And I'm sorry for what's been done to you." His eyes find the marks on my neck again, and I watch them flame in anger. "He will be punished for this," he assures, moving his eyes back to mine.

I shake my head in confusion. "Why?" I burst out, a tear dribbling down my cheek. "I took your son away from you! You shouldn't be sorry, you shouldn't be punishing people for hurting me because I hurt you and your family!" I swallow thickly. "Much more than the blade of a knife hurts some skin."

He shakes his head back and forth slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Edward was hurting, too," he says softly, "and I did that – but, can't you see what you've done for him?"

My blurry eyes find his, and I just look at him.

Because, _no_. I _can't_.

He smiles at me, and I can't interpret the emotion behind it.

"Isabella," he whispers, "you've _saved_ him."

* * *

**A/N:**

Aw, see? Things are looking up. :)


	25. 24: A room in the Whitehouse

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **arison33, cupcake12587, live-love-learn-laugh, ellaryne, snowiewolf, CullenLover, Matthias Stormcrow, 1stMysterywriter, RobsTip, angelface12, Anne, Saxa, vickybooksxtwilightx, Evolutions Vampire, **one** Anon **and four** Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

You all want Edward ~ can't say I blame ya. ;) But he'll be here soon.

Where we left off: Bella had a nice ol' talk with the President . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I'm given a room (in the _Whitehouse, _just saying).  
**

Almost as soon as he's uttered that cryptic remark, the door is burst open and a man enters. He stars speaking about _journalists_ and _the media_, before abruptly stopping upon seeing me. His mouth gapes open and then snaps closed like a goldfish, but I really find I'm unable to appreciate that at this precise moment.

The President immediately straightens up, and tells the man something that I can't discern because it feels like my ears are muffled. All of sudden, I feel drawn-out and drained, and all I want to do is _sleep_.

"Isabella," he says softly, and I bring my heavy eyes up to meet his. There is only me and him in the room again. "I have to take care of some business, but I think there is still more we need to discuss." I nod, but inside I'm wondering what else there could be. He peers down at his watch before peering at me. "You look tired."

I shrug, wincing as it disturbs the cuts on my neck.

He watches me closely, and I grow uncomfortable under his gaze, dropping my eyes to the carpet beneath my feet.

I hear a door open.

"Jane," he greets.

"Yes, sir?" A new voice responds, and I look up in surprise. There's a small woman stood next to the president now, donned in a pencil skirt, blouse, blazer, and heels I would probably break my neck in.

"I'm going to need you to take care of Ms. Swan," he replies, motioning in my direction. The woman peers over at me and I flush, knowing I must look pretty damn terrible right about now.

Nevertheless, she responds, "Certainly, sir." Then turning her attention to me she says, "If you'll follow me please, Ms. Swan." And then she departs from the doorway, as silently as she came.

I look up at the President, wide-eyed and confused. He chuckles. "Well, go on then."

"Go?" I repeat in confusion, but nevertheless stand and start walking when he makes a motion with his hand for me to approach. I pause next to him. "Go where?" I ask him, dumbly.

He raises his eyebrows. "To your room, of course."

I gape at him like a fish out of water. "M-my _room_?" I ask, stuttering and in disbelief. When what I really want to say is: "No disrespect intended but, _whaaaa_?"

"I was under the impression you were tired."

I splutter. "Yes, but – "

"And rooms usually hold beds."

"But I can't just – "

He ushers me out of the office. "We will talk more, later."

My mouth bobs open and closed just as the man's did previously.

"Good night, Isabella," he says, smiling, right before he closes the door on me.

His smile is a little crooked, and it reminds me of Edward.

_Edward . . ._

All I can do is stare at the smooth wood in shock for several minutes, before a throat is cleared delicately. I turn around slowly to find Jane standing against another door, open, that leads down some kind of hallway; she tips her head in its direction. "Shall we?"

**~o~**

The room I've been assigned is _huge_. I rationalise it's about the same size as my flat – and that's including the living room, bathroom, bedroom, etc.

And rather than this making me realise the _smallness_ of my own flat, it just makes me marvel at the _bigness_ of the Whitehouse.

The Whitehouse. I'm in the _Whitehouse_.

Never thought I'd think that.

Shaking my head to pull myself out of my reverie, I hesitantly step deeper into the room. The room is very open and bright – with wide open windows with fluttery drapes hanging over them – and it's full of furnishings that are so obviously expensive.

It's nice, but all the glamour kind of makes me want to run in the opposite direction.

Pulling my lip into my mouth, I quickly toe off my muddy shoes, wincing at the marks now on the cream carpet. I quickly pick them up and carefully put them down on a desk near the door. I peer this way and that as I take small steps, pausing at the foot of the large bed.

I sigh tiredly. It looks very comfy.

My fingers creep up to my neck at the same time I look down at my clothes.

I grimace.

I look as terrible as I feel.

My eyes lift and dart over first to a set of sliding doors that could very well be a wardrobe, and then over to another door that could very well lead to a bathroom.

But . . .

I can't just use things that aren't mine.

I shouldn't even be here.

I start backing up until I hit the door. Guilt douses my body in quick spurts of cold water. I still don't understand why the President is being so nice to me – first his words, and now this. It feels like too much, like more than I deserve.

I slide down the door, hitting the plush carpet without a sound.

I stare numbly at the space ahead of me, suddenly tossing words over in my head. I bring my knees up to my chest, ignoring the way my body aches at the slightest of movement, and rest my forehead on them; shutting my eyes to shut the world away.

_You've saved him._

I drift into a dreamless sleep, thinking, _he saved me._

**~o~**

When I wake up later on, it's not really caused by anything on the outside, rather something introspective that I can't determine, but causes an unpleasant chill to run down my spine.

I shudder in my skin, shaking myself awake. The room is slightly less light than it was, and I guess I must have been sleeping for a little bit.

I unfurl myself from my curled up position on the floor, wincing at the ache in my neck. Rising my arms above my head, I let a groan out from both pleasure and pain before bringing my hands down to rest on my knees, blinking a few times.

"Okay . . . " I whisper, rolling my neck around and hearing it thud against the wood of the door. I slap my hands against my thighs once before standing up. There's a distinct ache in my bladder that tells me: _bathroom, now._

I oblige by quickly darting across the room and into what is indeed a bathroom. I stare at it for a few minutes, in complete and utter awe of the size and grandeur of things, before going about my business.

After flushing the toilet – I don't even have to press anything, just hover my hand over a sensor – I start washing my hands; scrubbing extra hard to rid the dirt from under my fingernails.

When I glance up, I catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror. I immediately recoil in shock, staring at my appearance in horror. _Is that me? _I think.

When I wave and the image waves back, I decide that it is.

My cheeks are sunken in, and there are heavy bags clutching at the skin under my eyes. I seem pale – even paler than usual – and the blood on my forehead and neck makes me seem like I'm something out of a horror flick.

My eyes are dull, my lips are chapped; there are a smattering of purple-type brusies flowering across my cheekbones. I look meek and frightened.

I was never _pretty_, but now I seem even too worse-for-wear to be _plain_.

I spoke to the President looking like this.

_Awesome_.

I quickly splash some water on my face to wake me up, but before I can do more, there's a knock on the door.

I freeze, watching as my reflection freezes in response.

The door knocks again, and my reflection blinks back at me.

With one last look in the mirror, I quickly dart to the bathroom door and pull it open. My walk slows as I continue my path to the door; the knocking continues, growing harder and more desperate the longer I don't open it.

I pause about a foot away, hesitating. Water drips off my nose so I quickly lift the bottom of my top to wipe my face on it.

What? The towels were white, too.

I think I've mucked up this swanky place enough.

My heart is beating quickly and I'm freaking out a little. Who could be knocking on the door? Who knows I'm even here? The President said –

– unless . . . the whole "talking" and "being nice" thing was a ploy, and really, I'm in actual, serious trouble. Like, more than my neck being cut and shoved around in a van.

I swallow thickly.

My face pales.

My hands tremble.

And just as I'm about to make a mad dash to the window to see if I can somehow escape – because self-preservation is surprisingly high on my list – the knob starts to turn.

And I'm _not_ the one turning it.

My brain goes: _holyapplegodidon'twanttodie._

My body goes: _letsjuststayhereandnotmove._

Because I'm frozen – can't move.

Like I've suddenly turned into a tree and sprouted roots.

The door is thrown open, narrowly missing my face.

And I gasp.


	26. 25: The reunion

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip, Matthias Stormcrow, snowiewolf, cupcake12578, Qunine, Saxa, Sky and Sea, angelface12, seekerharmoney, **and four** Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

Where we left off: Someone came'a knockin' on Bella's door . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . we reunite.**

It feels as if the air has just completely rushed out of my body in one great big _whoosh_. I stare for a moment, and I can only whisper his name once before he's surrounding me in his warmth.

I just about cry in relief as I cling to him, and he hushes me quietly before pulling us deeper into the room; his hands splayed out against my back – _shaking_. I press and push against him, feeling like I can't get close enough, and barely notice when he shuts the door behind him with his foot – the sound a heavy, final sound.

My arms wind tight around his waist, my heart filling with so many emotions but the main one that stands out is _relief._ I want to tell him how glad I am to see him, how I had been so worried and how I had _missed_ him, but all words seem to catch in my throat as they come up. So I just hug him harder, hold him tighter.

Emotion makes me speechless.

He buries his face in my hair and his arms embrace me so close until I'm not sure when he ends and I begin. I feel small in his hug, feel protected under his hands.

Sold, stable . . . _safe_.

The air around us is utterly silent apart from our ragged breaths – the sound of drowning people coming up for air. I breathe in against his chest and close my eyes, surprised but not when a tear slips down my cheek when I do. I clutch the material on his back when I feel his hands slip under the cloth of my top, stroking my skin with fingertips and lighting nerve ending with his hands.

Like he's assuring himself I'm really _real_ . . . bones and flesh and skin.

Gripping my bare waist in his warm palms, he pulls me up until my tiptoes just barely touch his feet, and my face slips from his chest up to his neck; my hands from his back to his hair. A deep sigh that's almost a groan, falls from his lips when he runs his nose all along the nape of my neck to my shoulder.

I clutch his hair tight in my hands, another tear rolling down my cheek to land on his warm skin. I think that might be his way of telling me he missed me.

I kiss the skin my tear landed on._ I missed you, too._

I don't know how long we stand like that, but everything, all other aches and pains, and thoughts – even time itself – seems to fade into the background, until it becomes no more than a quiet hum.

Too low to surface over the noise of our tide.

Eventually, we break apart. He sets me back on my feet – my toes meeting the plush carpet – but unlike a good thing coming to an end, it's just _settled_ and not _finished_. I look up at him, and the world seems a little lighter – the air around us brighter, shinier.

"Hey," I croak out, my trembling fingers fiddling with the hair around the nape of his neck. "Long time no see."

He smiles at me then, a little crooked, a little perfect – a lot familiar, and I kind-of want to cry at the sight of it. He ducks down to nudge my nose with his in a silent _hello_, and then whispers softly, "The castle's been quiet without you, Princess."

My eyes water, and I lean forward to press my forehead against his, closing my eyes.

"I was taken away," I whisper back, "I did some bad things."

"Not too bad, I don't think," he replies softly, and his hand moves from my back to my heart, his palm double the size of the pumping muscle.

I shake my head, feeling like I don't deserve his understanding right now. I don't move away though, I'm too selfish to stop stealing his warmth and safety; a sense of comfort that had been otherwise absent from my life – missing for too many years.

My voice trembles when I say, "Could my huntsman ever forgive me? – Just a little bit, maybe?"

He moves his hands to cup my face, gently pulling my forehead from his. I keep my eyes closed for a minute, feeling his breath wash over my face like a soothing fog, before pulling them open with a small sigh.

He rubs his thumbs under my eyes, collecting water and dashing it aside. And he almost breaks my heart when he whispers, softly, "I forgive you."

My mind shatters in two.

I'm too relieved to ask him _why_, for the moment, at least.

I look up at him with damp eyes, and notice his are damp, too; eyelashes long and wide and wet, green fresh and clear and _calm_.

Like the skies after a storm.

He sighs once, pushing his hands through my long hair until he reaches my own hands. He interlocks our fingers, links his pinkie with mine. We're joined only by our fingertips, and I can't help but wonder if it represents where we are right now.

Fragile hold.

Fragile bond.

Fragile _people_.

Peering up at me from beneath his midnight lashes, he says, "You look terrible."

I let out a weak laugh. "Thanks," I sniff, smiling a little. "So do you."

He looks thinner than the last time I'd seen him. The angles on his face are more prominent, too prominent really, so much so that his skin looks paper thin, and too pale. There are dark shadows under his eyes, like he has insomnia, and his hands in mine are cold.

I think, _maybe we match._

Tit for tat.

Hurt for hurt.

It makes me wonder how long we've been apart for.

When _was_ the last time I'd seen him?

I open my mouth, close it, and then open it again. "How long has it been?"

I don't need to elaborate; he knows what I'm asking.

His breath comes out sharp through his nose, and his eyes tighten perceptibly. "Two weeks," he utters gruffly, tightening his hold on my fingers.

All the blood quickly rushes away from my face and my eyes widen. I gape at him. "T-two _weeks_?" I stammer, blinking in quick succession. _How is that possible?_

He nods stiffly, his jaw tightening and his eyes darkening. "Fourteen days, 336 hours, 20,1260 minutes," he utters, voice and body trembling. "I had no idea where you _were_." He swallows visibly. "What was happening to you." His brows furrow and he closes his eyes, shaking his head quickly, as if dispelling a disturbing thought, or image.

My heart clenches. His concern in earth shattering; staggering. "I'm sorry," I whisper, feeling awful for causing him distress.

His eyes pop open. "It's not your fault," he says, looking at me incredulously with wide-eyes.

I can't help but frown at him. "It is," I insist. "All of this is – every single thing." I peer up at his ever-green eyes for a moment, before sighing sadly. I look down at our hands before pulling mine away and turning my back to him. I walk a few steps forward, and the distance tugs at my heart. "You shouldn't have been worried about me," I mutter lowly, tugging on the bottom of my shirt.

"_Shouldn't have been worried about you_?" He repeats, sounding even more incredulous this time. "How can – are you – after all – " he stammers, before breaking off with a frustrated groan. "Bella," he says, quiet but determined, sounding like he's speaking through his teeth, "do you not understand my feelings for you – at all?"

My eyes widen, and I swallow thickly. My arms wind around my middle against the dull throb in my chest. Shakily, I start to say, "Edward, you don't really – "

I'm cut off by hands on my shoulders; spinning me around quickly.

My breath catches – a spark, caught and kept, in the corner of his eye. _Light it_, I think_, and watch him flame._

His hands flex on my shoulders, his touch hot even through the layers of fabric covering me. The green almost seems to blend with the black of his pupil, until his eyes are a swirling, beautiful mess of emotion, and colour. Like jade, and emerald and ever-green; verging on a steely blue while flickering flecks of golden warmth at me.

He is liquid heat.

Baby blue spark to great green flame.

"I don't really, what?" he asks lowly, interrupting my perception of his eyes.

I fidget nervously under his hands and my eyes blink quickly under his gaze – his intensity burning the back of my lids. I press my lips together, and say with more determination than I feel, "You don't really . . . " I hesitate, words getting caught in my throat before I finally spit them out, ". . . want me – care about . . . me."

I stiffen under his hands after I've said the words, and both feel terrible and better once they're out.

I say goodbye to green as coal overtakes the whole entirety of his eyes.

His hands tighten so much on my shoulders, I fear he may shatter the bones. When I let out a little wince of pain, he abruptly pulls his hands back from my skin as if he'd been burned.

I eye him carefully, warily, hunching over in on myself a little. "You're angry with me."

"No, Bella," he snarls, yanking a hand through his hair. "I'm fucking _fuming_."

I flinch back, never having heard him swear before. And I don't think I've ever seen him like this, not even when I told him who he really was two weeks ago – I still can't believe it's been that long – and he was angry then, but now . . . it's a whole new level. He is . . . _fuming_, as he so put it.

"Do not," he rasps, turning to face me from where he'd been pacing; eyes pitch black, "even _attempt_ to tell me how I feel."

He stares at me for a minute, eyes keeping mine captive, before going back to walking up and down the room, just about making a hole in the floor. I naw roughly on my bottom lip, watching his quick strides nervously, anxiously, and with furrowed brows.

_You don't really want me – care about . . . me_

"You know," he says abruptly, startling me. He suddenly moves closer to me, standing about a foot away. "You pretended you didn't know who I was for a whole month, and I forgive you for that, I do . . . but what got to me most about that whole situation was how you thought it was necessary to decide everything for me." His dark brows furrow. "You didn't have to hide things, or withhold information from me just because you were afraid." He shakes his head slowly, and my heart beat quickens in my chest. _Afraid_ . . . "You were doing what you thought was best for me, and now you're doing it again. Why won't you give me any credit, Bella? Why do you always think I'm going to make the wrong choice?"

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. "That's not what I – "

"Yes," he interrupts, "it's exactly what you're doing."

I don't respond, just keep on staring into the painful darkness. He was right. Before, I didn't tell him because I was afraid of . . . so many things, and right now I'm telling how he feels – or how he _doesn't_ feel – because I _do_ think he's choosing wrong.

He's choosing me.

I want _Mole_. I want his arms and his crooked smile and bright eyes. I want the way he talks in a rush when he's excited, and the way red floods into his cheeks just like mine when he's embarrassed. I want him covered in flour and marvelling at the stars in the night sky with me, I want his kind words that touch my heart, and his special words that make my cheeks flush. I want him holding my hand and burrowed into my side at night, just like a warm little _Mole_.

I just want _him_.

But in the real world, which impended upon us as soon as the words, _you're the President's son_, left my mouth, I can't want any of these things.

I breathe out slowly, trying to beat down the uncomfortable swelling of my heart. I re-open my eyes, pushing my hair away and out of my face. "I'm no good for you." I say, attempting to sound strong when I all I feel is small, and weak.

But when I find the courage to bring my eyes to his a few minutes later, into the silence, I find his staring intently at my forehead – a part that had previously been covered by my ratty hair.

"Bella," he growls lowly, "what the _fuck_ happened to you?"

* * *

**A/N:**

Uh-oh...

Do you guys like peeved-off-ward? And how was their reunion? Favourite line/moment/part? I think they missed each other, just a little. :3

Thank you for reading/reviewing. ~ C xoxo


	27. 26: Penance for a sin

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Saxa, Vanquish13, Nyx35, snowiewolf, twiclare, Sky and Sea, ellaryne, Matthia Stormcrow, cupcake12578, arbitarygirl, Anne, Evolutions Vampire, vickybooksxtwilightx, xxDeadInsidexx, N . York, seekerharmoney, maddds, MaddiiLoves, **one** Anon **and three **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

Where we left off: There were hugs, tears, and swear words . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . it's just penance for a sin.  
**

My hand automatically flies up to where he's looking, and I cringe as I feel the bumpy ridges of the thick scab. "It's, uh, nothing, really," I say nervously, peering up into his eyes warily. "You know me; clumsy, klutzy Bella . . ."

His eyes dart to mine then; disbelief coating them heavily. "You expect me to believe you did this to _yourself_? After you've been – "

His pause makes me anxious.

The redness quickly rising to his face makes me take a step back.

His eyes dart again to the – what is, I'm sure – unpleasant raised clotting of blood on my forehead, and then to the knuckles of my hand that is up near my face. I protest as he reaches out and gently grabs my arm, pulling me toward him, but they go unheeded. His eyes continue to scan me; falling across my face intently – _searching_.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out, lifting his hand slowly to my face. His fingers hover over the skin, but he doesn't touch me.

I know what he sees: bruises and blood. I guess he'd been too distracted to notice before, but now . . .

"What happened to you?" he repeats, only this time without the swear word.

I shrug weakly. "I told you that trouble finds me, didn't I?" I say, smiling a strained smile.

His eyes find mine, and he's not smiling. "Don't," he barks out roughly, "don't try and make light out of the situation – make light out of what's been done to _you_."

The forced smile slips from my lips without much of a fight. My gaze falls from his to find the floor, practically burning holes into its softness. "They're just . . . bruises and cuts, you know?" I peer back up at him. "Nothing that won't fade."

He presses his lips together angrily. "You're hurt, Bella," he utters with a frown. "They'll fade, you're right, but they shouldn't _be_ there in the first place." He stresses, his hand finally finding my cheek; rubbing his thumb across my skin oh-so-delicately. I fight the urge to lean into his touch. "There shouldn't be anything to fade." His eyes are pained and sad as his fingers trail down my skin, his eyes following in pursuit. I swallow thickly when he pushes the hair from my neck away.

I watch slowly, horror-filled, like watching a car crash but not being able to look away, as fingertips brush against the slashes on my neck, green-eyes widening when they take in the mess.

My neck _pulses_.

My heart _throbs_.

He snatches his hand back like he's been burned, and my eyes water at what he must think. I spin around before he can stop me, my own hand finding the mars on my neck to cover the ugly torn, bloody skin.

Silence – charged – spins a sticky web around the air around us. The only sound penetrating the stillness are heavy breaths – his or mine, I can't be sure – and the sound of my heartbeat, so _loud_ in my own ears that I think for sure he can hear it, too.

My fingers feel the jagged roughness, and the pain, on my neck. I think perhaps these cuts won't fade as easily as the bruises will.

Maybe he thinks so, too.

I shut my eyes when I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Bella," he breathes into my ear from behind me, and I can tell he's trying to keep calm, but anger still leaks into his voice nonetheless – unable to be truly, fully restrained. "Who did this to you?"

I shake my head. _I don't know. Why does it matter?_

I can't even deny that there is a "who" who did this to me, unlike I could with the bruises, which could have been accidental, even though they weren't. But with this . . . it's utterly obvious that it was no mistake or accident. Someone intentionally sliced my skin up because they wanted to hurt me.

And hurt me they did.

So mission accomplished.

The thing was, I would have told the man everything. He didn't have to do what he did. But the look in his eyes with each sweep of the blade . . . he _wanted_ to. It wasn't about retrieving information from me, it was just complete _malice_.

How can I tell Edward this?

Instead, I whisper-lie, "They'll fade, too."

More stillness, and then his grip tightens on my shoulder – but not painfully so. He abruptly spins me around to face him. "I don't care!" he cries out, causing my eyes to pop open; I look at him wide-eyed. "You think it matters to me if you're scarred or not?"

"They're disgusting," I whimper, my hand tightening around my neck.

His eyes harden. "No," he whispers harshly, and then gently unwinds my fingers from around my neck. I flinch back once the slices and blood are clearly visible once more. "Whoever did this to you is fucking _disgusting_." He looks pained as his eyes trace over the wrecked area. His finger barely skims over my skin and he hisses. "Who did this?" he asks again, his eyes moving back to mine. I say nothing, frozen.

"Who did this, Bella?" he repeats.

I swallow harshly. "I don't know," I lie.

His eyes never leave mine. "Yes, you do."

"What difference would it make, Edward?" I ask tightly, desperately. "It doesn't matter, okay? What's done is done. You can't change anything."

He takes a step back from me, running his hands through his hair roughly. "_Doesn't matter?"_ he repeats in disbelief. "Do you even hear yourself right now? Look at what they've done to you!" His eyes trail over my exposed flesh to prove his point, and I slump forward, as if I could be so small he wouldn't' see me.

"I can _feel_ what they've done to me," I whisper, a tear rolling down my cheek. "Inside, and out here." I push my hand against my neck, my forehead. "And you know what? It's probably no more than I deserve."

He opens his mouth as if to interrupt, but I cut him off.

"Your family, Edward?" I say, looking up and staring right into his eyes. He needs to understand. "I saw them. On the TV. The day the kitchen went on fire, you remember?" He doesn't respond, just stares at me. "I saw them, watched them." My eyes well as I remember their distraught faces – weeping for their lost son or brother. "They were so _sad_ . . . their hearts were breaking – it was all over their faces – and what did I do?" I shake my head, lifting a hand to wipe away the blur in my vision. "Nothing. Absolutely _nothing_."

My watery eyes find his in the distance. "Tell me I don't deserve this then." I lift my hand from my neck and trail my fingers none-too-gently down the slashes. "So, no, it doesn't matter." I shake my head slowly. "They get you, and I get this." I look away then, because I can't bear to look at him anymore. "Repentance. Atonement," I say lowly to the door. "Penance for a sin."

I hear him let out a puff of breath in the distance, but I don't turn my head to see him. Maybe now he'll stop being so nice to me, maybe now he'll see I'm not worth it.

Maybe now he'll choose right.

And not choose _me_.


	28. 27: Taking care of me

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **xxDeadInsidexx, Qunine, LoveACullen, Matthias Stormcrow, snowiewolf, r0se, RobsTip, seekerharmoney, DizzyIzzyCullen, ellaryne, Saxa, FleurdeLysff, robyn-odei-ntiri, angelface12, Evolutions Vampire, **one** Anon **and one** Guest **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

**p.s.** Aw, guys. Don't be too hard on Bella! I know she may seem like a lost cause right now, but she's incredibly overwhelmed by just about, well, _everything_. Put yourself in her shoes for a minute. She's a good person, and she just feels guilty. Edward seems too good to be true, you know? It's hard for her to accept the kindenss he's so willingly giving, because she doesn't always feel deserving of it.

Nevertheless... things are looking much better this chapter. :)

~ rant over ~

;)

Where we left off: Cuts and low self-esteem . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . he takes care of me.  
**

The stillness that follows my confession seems to capture us in its fragile bubble. I fidget uncomfortably on the spot, waiting to hear his words but afraid of what they might be, at the same time I can't quite bring myself to make any movement that isn't minuscule – wary of breaking the delicate bubble, worrying what might happen if I do.

In the end, his words aren't ones that I expect to hear.

"You're bleeding," he says quietly, and my eyes dart to his in surprise. His ever-green are looking down at my neck, and then at my fingers. I follow his line of sight; wondering.

And . . . oh.

_Oh._

Just like he said, there is blood – staining my fingertips. There's not much there, but enough for me to know I've re-opened wounds, broke away scabs. "Um," I stammer, feeling my neck pulse. "I guess I . . . pressed down too hard." I peer back up at him warily.

He sighs once, and slowly starts closing the distance between us. His eyes dart between both off mine, and his steps are short, and exaggerated, as if approaching a wild animal. When he reaches me, he grasps my hand and tells me to _"come on"_ softly, while pulling me in the direction of the bathroom.

I follow him numbly, staring at our clasped hands. Suffice to say, this was not what I was expecting in a reaction to my words. But nevertheless I'm . . . pleased.

He's still here, maybe he's not going . . . anywhere.

I try to push back the hope curling around my stomach and fluttering up to my heart, but it's of no use.

He pushes the bathroom door open and goes through. I follow diligently, sitting on the closed toilet lid when he gently pushes on my shoulders. I watch him as he starts to rifle through cupboards – what do you know? _White_, too – while muttering indiscernible things under his breath. I want to ask him what he's doing, but I can't seem to make my mouth form words right now.

Seemingly finding whatever he's looking for, he turns back to me. He's holding a green box in his hand, and as he comes closer, I can see it's a first aid kit, just like the one I have at home. I raise my eyebrows at him in question.

He shrugs. "There's one of these in my bathroom," he responds, holding up the kit. "I figured there would be one in here, too."

I nod slowly, and he goes about rooting through it. He pulls out bandages, plasters, ointments and creams; a pair of scissors, wipes and some tape. He sets them all out on the floor next to my feet.

Standing up from his crouched position on the floor, he goes over to the sink and retrieves a wash cloth I hadn't noticed before now. He swills it under some water, ringing out the excess before walking the few steps back to me. All the while I watch him, and I can't help but notice how much our circumstances seemed to have been reversed.

I took care of him and now . . . he's taking care of me. Even after everything.

I look at him as he crouches down in front of me again; gently grasping my fingers and ridding them of the red, and I feel my eyes growing damp again.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"For what?" he quietly responds, never ceasing his scrubbing.

I inhale deeply. "For everything," I reply honestly in an exhale. "For being nice to me, for taking c-care of me," I stutter, the word feeling strange on my tongue. "For making me happy . . ." I trail off, noticing his ministrations stopping. He pauses, and his eyes lift from my hands to my face. "For just, um, being you, I guess." I suck my lip into my mouth. "You're a good person." I finish, nodding my head absently as if to prove my point further.

His head shifts to the side, and I'm mesmerised as I watch his eyes soften, until they look like emerald silk and swirl like green tea. "Ditto," he says, smiling faintly. "To all of it."

We look at each other for a couple of minutes, and everything but _us_ seems to fade; locked in some kind of staring contest, the other doesn't seem to even _breathe_.

It's broken when Edward clears his throat and looks away, back to my hands again. He resumes his cleaning as if nothing just happened, as if the world didn't just shift on its axis and send us spinning.

My cheeks flush.

A silence soon fills the space around us, but it's not uncomfortable. Even with the time apart and unknown confessions becoming known . . . there's no awkwardness in the air, only this kind of nice heat that's been ever-present since I first met him. It's soothing, like a balm, and despite choosing right or wrong, I can't help but relax. His skin on mine is electrifying, his touch is a comfort blanket – wiping away the bad and making me feel safe and secure again.

Right or wrong, right now . . .

I just want him to choose _me_.

"Can you tilt your head a little?" Edward's soft request brings me out of my reverie. I nod stiffly, before tilting my head just so.

"Like that?" I ask quietly.

He hums back in response, before bringing the cloth to my neck. I bite my tongue once the water reaches my damaged skin, and he grimaces. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

He works on my neck slowly, gently, not rushing to make the pain less so. He has to wring the cloth out a few times and each time he does, the water flows pink. I blanch slightly, not realising there had been so much blood coating my neck.

I don't ask to do it myself, because I think he _wants_ to take care of me.

The thought sends butterflies flapping wildly in my stomach.

Once he's satisfied with the cleaning, he deposits the cloth in the sink. I make a move to stand up, but he cocks an eyebrow at me, stilling me in my place.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks in a drawl.

"Um," I stammer, my eyes widening. "Nowhere, I guess." I slowly sit back down again.

His lips twitch in an almost smile.

My lips twitch back.

He crouches back down in front of me, bringing his hands to rest on my knees and his face close to my neck. His touch and proximity sets my mind reeling, and my heart quickening in the best way. "Bandages," he breathes, close to my ear.

"Huh?" I reply back, oh-so-eloquently, trying to be discreet as I breathe in his apple-scent smell.

He pulls back a little so I can see his eyes, and he, mine. He nods towards my neck. "Bandages," he repeats, sounding a little amused. "You need them."

"Oh, right . . . " I say, but I don't really hear him, because I'm too busy trying to pin-point the exact colour of his eyes. It's hard though, because there seems to be all and every type of green swirling around in there.

Reaching behind him, his eyes are taken away from mine. He fiddles with tape and scissors before getting what he deems to be the right about of bandage wrapped around his hand.

He hesitates before starting. "Would you like to . . . " he trails off, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck, " . . . shower, before I do this? It might make you feel better."

My eyes widen, and I look at him for a moment before peering down at myself. I really do seem to scream _grubby_.

I bet I smell none-too-fresh either.

Or look particularly fantastic.

I peer sheepishly up at him, biting my lip. "It's very . . . " I start, turning my head to look over at the shower, " . . . white."

He turns to look, too. "Yeah." He shrugs, apparently not seeing my dilemma. "So?"

"I might get it . . . dirty." I grimace, looking down at myself once again.

He lets out an unexpected snort and my eyes immediately shoot to his. He shakes his head in a rueful kind-of-way. "_That's_ what you're worried about?"

I nod. "I'm filthy."

"That's why people take showers."

I bring my thumb to my mouth. "I don't want to mess anything up – more than I already have."

He sighs, bringing his hand up and gently retrieving my thumb from my mouth. He briefly runs his thumb over my bottom lip, sending a gaggle of zipping sensations through the sensitive flesh. "Bella," he whispers, moving his hand to cup my cheek. "They're just . . . things, you know? Just stuff. It doesn't matter if you get them dirty, okay?" He runs his pointer finger under the tired skin of my eyes. "_You_ matter."

My breath hitches.

His eyes scorch softly.

"So, are you gonna take a shower?"

I nod, hypnotised, finding I can't say no when he's looking at me like that. "I guess so."

He smiles then, brief, fleeting, but pleased. He leans in, still holding my cheek, and I find my eyes closing when his lips brush across my forehead in a sweet kiss.

"Good girl," he breathes softly.

**~o~**

10 minutes later, I find myself standing under a stream of hot water. I can't help but groan as it flows down my body, soothing aches and pains in joints I never knew existed. The water stings slightly as it lands on my neck, but it's not an unmanageable kind of pain; just a little biting.

My muscles loosen with each pass of heat and I sigh happily. _Edward was right,_ I think. And I don't feel guilty but only _relieved_ when I see the dirty water going down the plug, feeling better knowing that it's not clinging to my skin anymore.

"Bella?" his muffled voice comes from the behind the door, and my eyes pop open. "I know you probably don't want to put those clothes back on again, so I've brought you some clean ones."

I smile under the stream.

"Um," he says, and he sounds nervous. "Do you want me to bring them into you, or should I leave them out here?"

I chew on my lip. "You can, uh . . . bring them in."

The door is opened a second later, and blood still pools to my cheeks even though there's an opaque shower wall shielding me from his eyes.

"I'll just . . . put them near the sink, okay?"

"Okay." I swallow. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replies quietly, and it takes a couple of minutes before I hear the door click open and closed again.

**~o~**

Stepping out of the shower, I gingerly dry myself off with a towel. I swear, it's the softest, fluffiest towel I've ever used in my life, and it feels like a cloud as it drifts over and dries my skin.

I pick up and examine the clothes Edward brought me; a t-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. Holding them against my frame, it becomes obvious that they are many, many sizes too big for me, and I wonder if these clothes are his.

I slip the bottoms on, grimacing as I come across the bruises painting my legs. I have to roll the ends up a few times so they're not dragging across the floor, and I have to tighten the waist as far as it will tighten so they won't fall off my hips.

The t-shirt is very long on me, coming to stop almost to my knees. I eye my bare arms critically, kind-of wishing Edward had brought me a long-sleeved one so I could hide the purple and yellow blotches.

Peering at myself in the mirror, I can see that I do look a little better. My cheeks are flushed red from the heat of the shower, and my hair is no longer a ratty mess. My eyes look brighter, but I suspect that this has more to do with _Edward_ than the shower.

My neck also looks a lot better without all the blood on it. I look more human, less like a zombie from out of a horror flick.

Nodding at my reflection, I walk over to the door, but on second thought grab the first aid kit, too.

When I enter the room, steam trailing out from behind me, I find Edward sitting on the bed, toying with what looks like a brush in his hand. At the sound of the door shutting behind me, his head snaps up.

His eyes trail over me as I stand in the doorway awkwardly. "You look better," he says, smiling softly.

"Thanks," I reply quietly, forcing my legs into motion. "I feel better."

Once I stand about a foot away from him, I hold the kit out in front of me uncertainly. "Um, I thought maybe you could . . . "

He takes it from me without a word; nodding. He shifts back on the bed a little until his back is against the headboard, and then he pats the space in front of him. I hesitate, and he notices.

"Come on," he prompts gently. "I don't bite."

I smile slowly, clambering onto the bed in front of him. I sit cross-legged, placing my hands in my lap and looking up at him. His eyes are on my arms.

I wince.

He sighs.

He lifts my right arm up, gently feathering his fingertips over a particularly large bruise on my forearm. His touch is soft but his eyes are angry. My mouth dips down into a frown_. It's okay_, I want to say, _I'm here now._

Hesitantly, I lift my arm not in his grasp and bring my palm to cup his cheek like he did mine in the bathroom. "I'm okay," I whisper, feeling his too-sharp cheekbones under my fingertips. And I think he must be hurting, too, only I can't visibly see the marks of his pain on his skin.

He doesn't respond, just bends his head down towards my arm. I look at him, confused, before feeling his lips flit across my skin in soothing caresses. My eyes drift closed; sensation hitting my system unexpectedly. He showers my arms in his sweetness, before pulling my other hand from his cheek and bestowing the same care to my other arm.

When I re-open my eyes, he's watching me.

Laying one last lingering kiss on my palm, he whispers, "You don't know how much I wish that would make it all better."


	29. 28: Talking

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **Matthias Stormcrow, angelface12, twiclare, robyn odei-ntiri, vickybooksxtwilightx, Evolutions Vampire, DizzyIzzyCullen, musicfreak239, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, gabby11234, snowiewolf, seekerharmoney, vampyrelover2, TheNatvamp21, windchimepianist, Jasperslittlesnack17, luna1990,** one** Anon **and four** Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

**p.s.** I'm so sorry I haven't updated in a while! As some of you probably know already, all hell broke loose fandom-RK-wise this week (of which I'm a part of) and so, yeah... things haven't been too great. D; As a result, I've not been in a writing mood these past few days. At least, not a happy one. And I never intended this fic to get too angsty, so... yeah. But, I'm feeling somewhat better now, realising I probably invest waaaaay too much time in other people's lives and not enough in my own... this chapter may not be up to scratch still but meh, I didn't want to leave you guys waiting any longer. I hope it's okay!

**p.p.s.** On a better note: the Olympics started! Did you guys watch the opening ceremony? It got better and was a bit fantastical, but, hey, I'm English and even I was confused at the start of it all... ;)

Anyway...

Where we left off: Edward's being the sweetheart we all know and love . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . we talk.  
**

Edward gently applies ointment to the wounded area, his fingers soothing away aches. Once he's spread the cream-like substance on, it feels numb before it starts to burn.

I wince, fighting the urge to run to the bathroom and splash frozen water on the little flames.

"What's wrong?" he asks, ever-watchful.

"It stings a little," I say quietly.

He looks contemplative. "Sting how?"

"Like, um, burning."

He nods once before zoning in on me a little. He leans forward, his palms on either side of my knees, and blows gently on my neck.

I shiver.

"Feel better?" he breathes out through an exhale, his cool breath a better sedative than any drug could ever be.

"Feels nice," I whisper back in reply, because it really _does_. "You're good at this."

He gives one last soothing exhale before leaning back on his palms; regarding me quietly. "At what?" he asks, leaning over slightly and grabbing an icepack I hadn't seen. He places it on my neck gingerly and I let out a sigh at the relief it provides.

"You know," I say, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden.

He raises his eyebrows in question.

"Um," I stammer, looking down at the bed sheet and running my pointer finger over its softness. "Looking after people."

He hums slowly, and then I feel his finger underneath my chin, tipping it up so my eyes meet his. "Maybe I'm just good at looking after _you_."

"Oh," I utter quietly, feeling heat rush up my neck and paint my cheeks crimson. I pretend not to see his eyes following its path, but when he smiles, and his eyes turn liquid like melted butter, I grow warmer anyway.

"Anyway," I say, somewhat hastily, when I can't stand the heat any longer. My eyes dart quickly between the bed sheet and his eyes, not being able to stay in one spot for very long. "How has it been, um, living here?"

He doesn't respond for a moment, just pulls the icepack away and starts pulling out the pre-prepared bandages. I watch as he wraps it around his hand; his eyes contemplative.

Finally he says," It's . . . big." My lips twitch up into a small, relieved smile. A safe question, and a safe answer. "I mean," he continues, "I know it's the Whitehouse and it's not going to be small or anything, but . . . " he rambles, somewhat adorably, while lifting an errant hand to rub above his eyebrow. "After living in your flat, all this space . . . " he motions around us, "just seems trivial."

I raise my eyebrows slightly in surprise. "You don't like it?" I ask.

"It's not that," he responds, starting to apply the bandage to my neck, oh-so carefully. "It just seems . . . unnecessary."

A disbelieving, breathless laugh escapes me.

A lopsided grin tips up the corner of his mouth. "What?"

"It's just that," I start, feeling him press the soft bandage against my skin, "you're probably the only person in the world who thinks so much space is _unnecessary_."

He cocks his head to the side, his eyes catching mine. "Don't you?"

"Well, I – " I stumble, because his eyes are so much _vivid_ up close. "I guess I do, yeah," I admit. "The whole establishment kind of freaks me out, actually."

He makes another sweep across my neck with the bandage. "How so?"

"It's just all so . . . " I trail off, my eyes darting around the room, " . . . glamorous." I shrug minutely, so as not to disrupt his movements. "It feels like I'm in a show home. I'm scared to touch anything."

"Ah, yes," he agrees, a smile touching his eyes. "The shower."

My cheeks heat a little. "The shower, the bed, the carpet – all of it."

He sighs once before removing his hands from my neck. "All done," he says quietly, but doesn't move back like I expect him to. Instead, he leans closer, and my eyes widen before closing when his lips touch my neck softly.

"All better," he breathes, and even through the layers he's just applied I can feel his heat searing the delicate skin. I'm momentarily taken aback to when I said the same thing to him, when he was unconscious and I plastered up his forehead.

It feels kind of bittersweet.

He leans back a moment later, smiling faintly at me. "Thank you," I whisper, because I feel like the space around us will shatter if I speak to loud.

"You're welcome," he whispers back, maybe feeling the same thing. He brings his hand up and touches my cheek softly – _reverently_ – and the action almost brings tears to my eyes.

"Turn around," he says gently, his hand trailing down my neck before he removes it altogether. I miss his touch immediately, but nevertheless throw him a questioning look.

He holds up the hairbrush at his side.

"Oh," I say nervously, biting down on my bottom lip. "You don't have to do that."

"I know," he agrees, "I want to." And then he looks at me, really _looks at me . . . _and there's no possible way I can protest any further.

So I acquiesce and turn so my back is facing him; my wet hair tumbling down my back in a bunch of waves and tangles. The door is now in my vision, and I'm filled with a sudden nervous energy, not being able to seem. So I discreetly duck my nose under the collar of the shirt I'm wearing, and my senses are immediately filled with apple scent.

_Edward_.

I smile secretly knowing this shirt is his, and I feel a little better.

I feel his fingers gently sliding through my hair first, going all the way from my scalp to where it ends at my waist. He continues doing that for some time, and the gesture is soothing and comforting in a way I haven't felt in very long – like something your mother would do to send you to sleep when you were little.

It's . . . nice.

I let out a sigh, and my eyes snap open – which I hadn't even realised I'd _closed_ – and I tense up a little. But Edward doesn't say a word, he just continues his gentle passes.

"Relax," he utters quietly into my ear, and I do.

I hardly notice when he starts using the brush; the strokes so gentle and smooth – not hurting in the slightest – that it could still easily be his fingertips in my hair.

"You're good at this, too," I say, in-between inhaling and exhaling a sigh.

"Mmm hmm," he hums, "maybe I played with Barbie Dolls when I was younger." He chuckles, and my lips curl up in response.

"Anything's possible," I agree.

After a while, that "maybe" starts to play on my mind. I feel a stab of guilt knowing it wouldn't be a "maybe" if I hadn't hit him with my truck. And then it's like a domino effect, and my mood quickly turns sour once more.

"Edward," I say, strained, hesitant. "Why aren't you angry with me?"

The brushstrokes stop. "Why would I be angry with you?"

I close my eyes in exasperation, and I'm simultaneously glad and bothered by the fact that I can't see him. "What I told you earlier – about your family . . . " I trail off quietly. "And just . . . _everything_." My hands fidget with the fabric on my thighs; pulling and tugging. "You were angry with me before . . . " I exhale shakily, " . . . before I got taken away."

He doesn't say anything in response, but I feel him shifting around on the bed. I tense up as I feel him vacate the space behind me, his heat disappearing, only to appear in front of me seconds later. He kneels down on the carpet in front of me so we're eye level. "I was angry," he says quietly, his hands grasping mine to still their jerky actions. "I was angry that you didn't tell me, that you lied to me." I wince, trying to pull my hands back from his but he holds them fast. "Bella," he says firmly, his green eyes glinting when they catch mine. "I need to say this. We never finished talking that day, did we?" His eyes search mine, and I shake my head back at him in acknowledgement. "So let's resolve this," he continues softly, "let's finish what we started."

My face pales, and I look at him, wide-eyed. "You d-don't want to be my . . . f-friend anymore?" I should have expected this, I _was_ expecting this. But to know it's coming and to actually physically _hear_ _it_ is two different things.

His green eyes grow wide, like the moon. "No!" he shouts, and I recoil back involuntary. "Christ, I mean . . . " he sighs, lifting one of his hands from mine to run it roughly through his hair. "That's not what I meant – not even close, okay?"

I look at him wearily. His eyes plead with mine.

I nod back shakily, finally, whispering, "okay."

His eyes watch me as he returns his errant hand to mine. He squeezes gently, and I peer down at our fingers – interlocked and pale – before looking back up at him.

"I was angry," he continues, as if there had been no interruption. "That day you told me everything . . . my mind was blown, Bella. I couldn't _think_ straight let alone communicate my thoughts to anyone – to you." I worry my bottom lip into my mouth, a bout of guilt hitting my insides. "When you first told me, I was angry that you lied to me, I was angry that you _could_ lie to me . . . but then, after you were . . . taken away," I watch as his eyes drift to my forehead, across my cheeks, over my neck and down my arms. Green sparks before it flares, and then he's closing his eyes and shaking his head, as if shaking away a bad memory.

"I had time to think," he continues, his voice a little hoarse as his eyes find mine again. "Too much time. All I could do was _think_." He grimaces, and his next words come out sounding bitter, and cold. "I couldn't do anything, they wouldn't let me do _anything_. I wanted to see you, but nobody would tell me where you were." He shoots a disdainful look over at the door, before bringing his eyes back to muddy brown. "I was distraught without you, Bella." He peers up at me, eyes so lost like a ray of sun in a storm.

His voice quivers slightly with his next words. "You know I would never . . . abandon you, right?"

My eyes mist a little, and I squeeze his hands back in response. "I know," I whisper, my voice choked, because maybe the reality that he really _wouldn't_ is just hitting me. Loosening my fingers from his momentarily, I bring a shaky hand up to touch his cheek; smoothness and stubble and bone. I cup his cheek in my palm, and stroke his skin with my thumb, pouring out emotion that I can't say just yet.

Because sometimes, actions speak louder than words.


	30. 29: A talking cont & sleeping

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip, ellaryne, maddds, Team Edward Rules All, Vanquish13, arbitarygirl, alivecullenforev, CJluvzdecullens, shurfine, Matthias Stormcrow, angelface12, twiclare, robyn odei-ntiri, Evolutions Vampire, snowiewolf, seekerharmoney, girl28121997, TouteSeule,** and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

Where we left off: Bella and Edward were chatting . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . we talk some more, and go to sleep together.  
**

Edward holds my eyes as I cradle his cheek – a rainbow of greens – before they drift closed and his lashes flutter likes wings against the tip of my thumb. My heart, which had been previously beating like a drum in my chest, has slowed significantly, as if his just touching him has the ability to calm me. I breathe out deeply, wondering if it – if _I_ – have the same effect on him.

Letting out a sigh, that both sounds relieved and satisfied, his hand drifts up to hold mine against his cheek. Interlinking our fingers, he turns his head just so and then his lips are on my palm, kissing the sensitive flesh softly.

Goosebumps erupt all over my skin, and I have to bite my lip to hold back any inappropriate sounds that threaten to escape.

"Ah, Bella," he breathes in a whisper, causing my skin to grow warm. He inhales deeply against my palm before his eyes are opening, his lids heavy and his eyes dark and watchful.

With my cheeks dappled red, he rises slowly, carefully. All long and strong flesh, bone and muscle – and maybe mind, too – as he unfurls. He is everything I am not; he is graceful, majestic, his movements offering a kind of solidarity whereas mine are only born to wobble, and sway.

When he stands fully erect, I think that if he sticks around, he might be everything I was missing.

Everything I _need_.

Exhaling quietly, I watch as his green grow soft and then sink like a sunset over grass. With the hand of mine he holds, he tugs me closer and then pulls himself up until his back hits the headboard. He winds one arm around my waist while the other lays captive in-between both of mine. I fiddle with his fingers, lay my palm flat against his, and marvel at the difference in the length of our digits, while smiling over the similarities of our skin tone.

His nose is in my hair, my ear is listening to his heart. And I can't help but feel _right_, so much so for the first time in two weeks that my emotions threaten to break the surface by bleeding out water.

I inhale against his chest and smell apples, so I snuggle closer to him in search of his warmth.

"Bella?" he whispers, after we'd been sitting in comfortable silence for an immeasurable amount of time.

"Yeah?" I whisper back.

"I have more," he pauses, and I can sense his hesitation, so I squeeze his hand gently to reassure him, " . . . to tell you." He clears his throat. "I have more to tell you."

I nod, hearing his heart thump underneath my ear. "Okay."

"So . . . " he continues quietly. "While I had all that time to . . . ponder over things, my anger waned, and lessened until eventually it faded away into nothing. Heck, it was probably all gone by the time those . . . " he hesitates, " . . . people, broke in and took you." He sighs, and is quiet for a minute, his forehead resting somewhere in my hair.

"It's alright," I encourage in a whisper, wrapping my fingers around his. "Go on."

He lets my fingers rest around his, while his other hand brings me closer to his side.

"I started to . . . dissect everything. Every single moment, movement, action or just whatever we shared. I picked it apart – all of it – mercilessly torturing myself . . . all the while you were really being _tortured_." His voice has grown pained throughout his speech, and he chokes out the last word. Tears spring to my eyes, but I don't interrupt.

"On and on my brain would go . . . analysing every little thing until I couldn't make heads or tails out of anything. It was always the same question: _what was real, what wasn't?_ I would come up with the worst scenarios . . . "

"Masochist," I attempt to tease, trying to break the heavy atmosphere a little.

He lets out a little laugh, causing me to smile. "I guess so."

"I got really sick of myself," he admits. "I couldn't fathom how I could be so pessimistic about this – about _you_ – when all you'd been was this really . . . bright ray of optimism. I was thinking the worst, and I don't know if it was because I found myself suddenly thrust into this foreign setting with all these people I didn't know, or if because I didn't know where you were, or what was happening to you . . . probably a mix of both.

"But the conclusion, the _realisation_ that I came to was that I wasn't angry with you Bella, no. You're a good person, and you had good intentions, and after everything you'd done for me . . . no matter how much of a masochist I am, it was very clear than none of it was done with anything sinister, or malicious in mind.

"You looked after me," he says gently, while slipping his hand from my grasp to touch my chin. He tips up my face until I'm looking into his eyes. "Thank you," he whispers, his eyes like soft moss.

My cheeks burn in response, and I utter a quick "you're welcome" while ducking my face into his neck.

His chuckle sends vibrations through my whole body.

"So you're not angry with me at all?" I ask, my voice small as I toy with his shirt buttons.

He squeezes my side in response. "Not even a little bit."

My mind spins, still perplexed that he could _not_ be. "You're too nice," I say through a sigh. "Masochist or not."

"But I'm _your_ nice," he teases.

I grumble through my smile and his chest bounces with his laughter.

We sit like that for some time. I don't count the minutes because time seems irrelevant, and if I could, I'd choose to pause it altogether, to freeze-frame this moment so I could always return to it.

When I let out a yawn, he notices.

"Bed time for Bella, I think," he says, and I look up at him to see him smiling at me.

I go to protest, but he silences me with his next words. "I'll stay."

After that, he quickly kicks down the blanket with his foot and then slides us down the bed until our heads touch the pillow, all the while never relinquishing his grip on me. I don't mind in the slightest, after being apart for so long, I savour all the contact he'll give me. Crave it, if you will.

Like he's heroin and I'm the heroin addict.

We lie on our sides, facing each other. And I smile seeing him, seeing me. Because he looks so adorable with his hair the mad disarray it is, and the lopsided smile curling up his lips. And I smile because his touch sends little flutters of butterfly's wings flapping in my stomach, and up and down my spine.

But mostly, I smile because he's seeing me, and I'm seeing him.

"What?" he asks me, still grinning.

"Nothing," I say, smiling stupidly back at him.

"Doesn't look like nothing," he teases, lifting his hand from under the blanket to touch the corner of my uplifted mouth. "You're happy."

I mimic his action. "So are you."

His smile widens, just when I thought it couldn't get any more spectacular. He lifts the shoulder poking out of the blanket in a slight shrug. And then says, most suavely, "You tend to have that effect on people."

I snort, burying my blushing face in the pillow. "Oh, shush."

He smirks victoriously back at me while eyeing my blush. His pointer finger leaves the side of my mouth to cup my cheek, but he doesn't say anything. I'm certain my skin must be burning underneath his fingertips, but I find that I'm not bothered by it.

I let my eyes drift closed, enjoying the spark his skin ignites when it touches mine. I sigh blissfully, wondering if there's anywhere in the world I'd rather be right now.

I think about it and . . . no, there isn't.

Just as I'm on the cusp of falling into dreamland, I feel Edwards hand vacate from its position on my cheek. It slips down my side until its curling around me, bringing me into his chest. His other arm winds around my back, and I think it's the nicest cage I've ever been in.

My eyes are too tired to pop open in surprise like they should, so the most I manage is a sleepy, _"hmm?"_ Because before, we fell asleep on separate sides of my bed, the most contact we had were our clasped hands. We woke up entangled, sure, but fell asleep apart.

So this is new, but as with anything Edward offers, not unwelcome.

Completely the opposite, in fact.

I feel safe and secure, protected and wanted. I feel like I'll be okay here always.

Edward whispers, very quietly, "You were too far away."

I go to sleep with a smile on my lips . . . wondering if I'll ever be able to get close enough.


	31. 30: Sleep talking

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **ellaryne, seekerharmoney, LoveACullen, Anne, snowiewolf, TouteSeule, robyn odei-ntiri, Team Edward Rules All, RobsTip, girl28121997, Vanquish13, Matthias Stormcrow, angieluvzdecullens, vickybooksxtwilightx, angelface12, Maggie Davis, DizzyIzzyCullen, windchimepianist** and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

**p.s.** So, it seems my life has become magically fuller recently, which is why updates are no longer daily. I've decided to learn the piano (yay!), which has been taking up some time. Sheet music and all that jazz? Not that easy. Also, I've surprised myself by really getting into the Olympics (Go Team GB!), and just regular family life, you know? It all adds up.

Which is why I've taken the *daily updates* off of my summary (sorry guys!) but you'll still notice it's *frequent updates* which is still good, right? When things settle down a little, updates might speed up. I plan to finish the entire story off before I go back to college (which is September sometime).

That's it! Thanks for all you patience and understanding guys! xoxo

Where we left off: Bella and Edward were sleeping . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . Edward finds out I sleep-talk.  
**

I wake up how I fell asleep; wrapped up in Edward's arms.

My dry lips crack when I smile, and I blink my eyes blearily against sleep. I can hear the steady _thump thump _of Edward's heart beneath my ear, like a siren call signalling he's alive. I press my head closer, grow warmer, because like a siren's call, I'm inevitably drawn to it.

The room has grown distinctly darker since my eyes were last open, a kind of twilight dark – the signalling to an end of a day. I frown as I regard the encroaching darkness blanketing me. Another day done, another day gone – what will tomorrow bring?

I lay there in the darkness with a warm body signalling safety under my own . . . and twilight doesn't seem as scary, or as melancholy as it did before. My frown smooths out, because I think it doesn't matter so long as I have someone – I listen to Edward's heart - . . . with me.

Smiling once more, I flex my fingers on top of Edward's and then trail my fingertips up his forearm. They encounter a rough patch of flesh – the scar I'd seen previously but had never asked about.

I continue to rub my fingers back and forth over the once-wounded flesh contemplatively; thinking.

"Hi."

I jump, letting out a little scream. My head shoots up on instinct to find Edward's amused eyes peering back down at me.

"You scared me!" I accuse half-heartedly, my hear hammering in my chest.

"Sorry," he apologises, but the smile on his face counteracts it.

"You really look it," I respond dryly.

He shakes his head on the pillow, his hair twisting this way and that, his grin growing wider. "Were you expecting someone else?" he asks, eyebrows lifting.

I roll my eyes. "No," I say firmly. "I just – I thought you were sleeping."

"Nope," he says, popping the p. "That was you."

I shake my head exasperatedly, but can't help the smile on my face. I lean up a little, resting my hand on his chest and then my chin on my hand so I can see him. Despite the dark, his eyes are like laser beams, seeking me out.

"So . . . you didn't sleep at all?"

He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh."

I grimace. "That must have been boring."

He grins at me suddenly, teeth bright and showing. "Not at all."

I am immediately suspicious.

My eyes narrow.

His widen.

And with all the innocence in the world, he says, "I didn't know you had such a fondness for pies."

_My_ eyes widen. "What?"

He shrugs as best he can while lying down. He gives me one last squeeze before lifting his arms from around me and placing his hands behind his head, looking very pleased with himself indeed.

I'm too horrified to even mourn the loss of his comforting touch.

His face says it all.

"Oh, God," I groan, hiding my face in his chest. My cheeks heat at the same time he starts to vibrate under me; his body shaking lightly with his chuckles. "What did I say?" I ask, fearful, voice muffled by his shirt.

"You talked about pies for a little bit," he says, voice lilted with amusement. "You like apple and cherry especially, and something else, um . . . low-something."

"Loquats," I fill in, voice small.

"Yeah," he agrees, "those."

I chance a peek up at him through my hair. "Is that all?"

He chuckles. "You also told me to take 'Bear' for a walk." He raises a brow in question.

"Oh," I utter sheepishly. "I wanted a dog when I was younger, I was going to call him Bear so the other kids next door would play with me, but Renée wouldn't let me have one." I admit.

"Why wouldn't they play with you?"

I sigh, scrunching my nose up. "They had a club or something, and I wasn't cool enough to be allowed to join. I thought getting a dog and naming him Bear would make me cool." I explain, and seeing the look on his face, I drop mine back into his chest. "I don't know," I mumble, chewing my lip. "Kids are weird."

One of his arms returns to my waist. "I think it's cool."

"I did, too," I mumble.

After toying with his button shirt for a minute, I look back up. "So, is that all I said?" I ask, kind of relived.

His eyes soften. "No," he says, and his voice has grown infinitely gentler. "You talked about Renée and Charlie." His eyes search my face. "You miss them."

I press my lips together, something like longing hitting my heart. Sighing, I drop my chin back onto his chest, because there's no use hiding from Edward. My eyes find his in the dark. "Do you think they miss me?" I ask, voice small.

"I'm sure of it," he assures gently, raising the hand not wrapped around my waist to tuck my hair behind my ear – his fingers lingering around the shell. "How could anyone not miss you?"

I smile weakly at him in return.

His fingertips trail from my ear to my cheek, lightly touching a fading blush.

"You also said my name," he says slowly, his eyes watching mine intently. I'm not sure what's he's looking for. "You asked me not to leave you."

My fading blush is bright pink again. I want to look away from his searing gaze, but find myself helpless to do anything but stare right back at his ever-green. There's no denying the walls around my mind – my _heart_ – tumbling down, leaving me open and bare – the most naked I've ever been. I feel vulnerable and lost, wanting something I shouldn't, but still wanting it anyway – regardless.

"I'm not going anywhere, you know?" he asks softly, and his grip around my waist tightens and pulls me closer as if to solidify his words.

"You might change your mind." I worry my bottom lip into my mouth. "After you . . . after you get your memory back, things might change." I drop my eyes from his then, focusing intently on the cotton-blue of his shirt. "You might want to live the life you were already living – uninterrupted by me." I stare down hard, counting the threads, hearing my voice and hating the words I'm saying. "But you don't have to feel guilty about it. I mean, I would totally understand if you never wanted to me see again and mmmff – !"

I'm abruptly cut off by Edward's hand covering my mouth, silencing me. I look up at him, wide-eyed.

"Bella," he says, voice and face frustrated. "Why do you keep trying to push me away?"

I blink back at him. The voice in my head immediately denies his words.

"Don't tell me you're not, because you are." His eyes shoot me a look; glinting steel. "And I want to know why."

He removes his hand from my mouth to let me speak. I struggle for words, finding I need space to think. So I lift my body from Edward's and sit, cross-legged and hunched over, next to him. I open and close my mouth many times, but get no actual words out. I tug with the hem of the too-long shirt, my brows furrowed.

"I guess I just – " I start, lifting my eyes to his. Green is patient and waiting, just like the meadow. "I'm just, I don't know," I utter helplessly, tossing my hands in the air to show my exasperation. "I'm not used to people . . . " I wring my hands together anxiously, my eyes darting away from his momentarily. " . . . wanting me near."

He's quiet for a moment, and the silence sets me on edge.

"Your mom?" he queries gently. "Your dad?"

I shrug, watching my fingers tangle and then untangle themselves. "Renée's off with Phil, you know? And Charlie . . . Charlie has Sue now. They have their own lives and I just . . . don't want to disturb that."

"Bella," he utters gently, hooking a finger underneath my chin so my eyes meet his. "You are _part_ of their lives – you're their _daughter_."

My cheeks burn in shame. "I know," I answer smally, "but sometimes I just feel like a burden."

He sighs, the frustration on his face melting away into an emotion I can't decipher. "You're silly. Crazy. Utterly absurd."

I let out a dry laugh, and immediately feel a shift in the air – _lighter_. "Thanks."

He smiles at me slowly. "But you're also wonderful, and fun, and clever and beautiful." His dark lashes flutter against his cheek when he blinks, and his smile is soft, quiet, gentle and easy. His other hand rises until both of his hands cup my face, and he leans close, until his forehead touches mine. "And I like to have you near."

My stomach flutters and my heart rate picks up in tempo. My hands find purchase in his soft hair, and my eyes flutter closed at the same time his do. The way our eyelashes tangle together makes me giggle, igniting a laugh from Edward.

I don't know how long we sit like that for, but it doesn't really matter.

_I don't want to know what time it is, I don't want to know what day it is, or where I am. None of that matters._

A sudden knock at the door startles us both.

A knock, another, and then a – "Miss Swan?"

My eyes snap open as Edward's do. Mine are afraid, his are watchful.

The knocks continue as we sit there in silence, I can't seem to force my limbs into motion. My heart is beating very quickly in my chest – but for another reason _entirely_.

Edward pulls back first.

"I'll get it," he says quietly, squeezing my hands before taking the measured steps to the door.

I get up from the bed, my limbs stiff and achy and sore, just as he pulls the door open a fraction – not enough so that the person can see into the room, but enough so that Edward can see them.

"Mr Cullen." The voice on the other side of the door says, sounding perplexed.

"Jane," he responds back coolly, and it takes a moment before the pieces click into place. _Jane_. The same Jane that was in the President's office and that escorted me to this room. "What business have you with Miss Swan?"

I creep closer to the door as they continue to speak, hiding behind Edward's back.

"What business have I – " She sounds a little shocked, but abruptly cuts off. "Sir," she starts, more calmly this time. "The President has requested Miss Swan's audience."

My face pales, and I realise that I'd forgotten this little titbit of news, too.

"_We will talk more, later."_

I guess _now_ has suddenly become _later_.

"Yeah?" he asks gruffly, and I watch as his fingers tighten on the handle of the door, as if preparing to close it. His stance has become undeniably rigid, and I regard his tense back worriedly.

He peeks over his shoulder at me, and his eyes are calculating as he stares into my eyes. "Okay," he says, holding my eyes for a second or two longer before turning back to Jane. "Tell him we'll be down."

"We, sir?"

"Yes," he says deliberately, "_we_, as in, Miss Swan and myself."

She goes to protest. "I really don't think – "

"Goodbye, Jane. We'll be down when we're down." And with that, he closes the door on her spluttering.

* * *

**A/N:**

"I don't want to know what time it is, I don't want to know what day it is, or where I am. None of that matters." ~ Is a quote from **Christopher McCandless,** from the book **Into the Wild** (also a film). I rec both if you haven't read/watched it already. He's kind of fantastic. :)


	32. 31: Things go south

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **cupcake12578, ellaryne, Matthias Stormcrow, GinvervaMarieChaseEverdeen, snowiewolf, Maggie Davis, girl28121997, Team Edward Rules All, Sky and Sea, musicfreak239, Anne, angieluvzdecullens, vickybooksxtwilightx, seekerharmoney, nana723, Bree, twiclare, moreno . cheryl 37**, and three** Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

**p.s. **Update, yay! I think seeing Rob (even if it is via a stream) tonight at the Cosmopolis premiere pumped me up to complete this chapter. :) Feel free to fan with me or just whatever with me on twitter. I'm **HisLinchpin** over there. I apologise for the wait!**  
**

Where we left off: Edward (I almost wrote Rob, welp. You can tell what - or who - I've got on the brain) verbally kicked Jane's arse . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . things go south.  
**

I follow Edward down the stairs with wide-eyes. My hand is clammy in his and my stare is focused somewhere near my feet. We had left the room about 10 minutes after Jane had departed, for no other reason, it seemed to me, than to make the President wait.

I told Edward he didn't have to come with me, but he'd simply scoffed and said _of course_ he was coming. I hadn't pushed because, really, I didn't want to go on my own. The president had seemed nice enough the last time I'd seen him, but he was still the _President_ nonetheless. How could your nerves not be racked when you're standing in front of him – _ever_?

"Hey," Edward says, tugging me back to the present. I noticed we've stopped on a landing. "It's going to be okay, you know?"

I naw on my bottom lip in response, lifting my eyes from the floor to look into his; they are sure and clam and steady, and everything I'm _not_ at this precise moment.

I can only nod in answer, my throat suddenly too tight.

He regards me for a moment longer, his eyes searing assurance into mine. He nods once, squeezing my hand gently before we start walking once more.

About 5 minutes later, we come into a foyer that looks painstakingly familiar. Swallowing nervously, I realise it's the same one I was in . . . yesterday? The one that sits just outside the President's office.

I look down, and up, and all around the walls. I never noticed before, but the colours are all gorgeously _rich_. Deep reds and wispy vanilla's that blend into a smoothness, making it seem like this whole room is strawberries and cream solidified.

The sound of the door opening snaps me out of my awe.

I watch as the same man that interrupted the President earlier comes into view, shortly followed by Jane. She seems to be directing him out, and as she passes us, she looks first at Edward and then at me, and her eyes tighten as if annoyed.

I cringe slightly into Edward's side.

He lifts his hand from mine to slide his arm around my waist and pulls me close, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into my side. Edward's eyes are narrowed as they watch Jane retreat, like slits of nuclear radiation or kryptonite.

She pauses just before crossing the threshold. "The President is expecting you," she says curtly, making it sound like a dismissal even though she's the one leaving the room.

When neither of us responds, she carries on ushering the man out of the room. And as soon as the door closes with a light click behind them, I let out a breath of relief.

"Ugh," Edward groans, his head dropping back so he peers up at the ceiling.

"What?" I ask, looking up at him curiously.

He sighs. "Jane bothers me."

"Bothers you?"

"Yeah," he says, picking up his head once more and finding my eyes with his. "She thinks she's on this pedestal or some damn thing just because she's the President's PA." He rolls his cat-like eyes sarcastically and mocks, "God forbid anybody should knock her down and she be made to walk along the Earth like the rest of us mere mortals."

I snigger quietly next to him, and his lips curl up into a sincere smile.

"So . . . " he says after a moment, the word coming out in a long exhale. He nods his head towards the door. "You ready to go in?"

I bite down on my bottom lip. My eyes dart from the door to his ever-green. "Now or never, I guess," I say, rather anxiously.

He drops his thumb to my cheek tenderly, bringing my face to his. My cheeks darken slightly under his stare. "It's going to be okay," he says softly, repeating his words from earlier. "I promise."

"_I promise."_

My eyes burn at the memory – how many times had I said that to Edward?

He smiles at me a little sadly, as if remembering, too. But nevertheless goes on to say, "And you know I keep my promises, right?"

_"And you know I keep my promises, right? I'm still here."_

I shut my eyes against the sudden overwhelming feelings crashing against me like stormy waves breaking against rocks. I tremble slightly, but his arm is there to steady me, to keep me upright when I threaten to tumble and fall.

Just like always.

When I re-open my eyes, his are wide and sincere. His head is tilted to the side slightly, his eyes traversing the lines of my face as his thumb caresses the hurt flesh on show. "I trust you," I whisper, because I _do_. Trust isn't an easy thing to give away, yet he gave me his unequivocally even when he shouldn't have. And suddenly I know what it must feel like to have your trust shattered in two – just like I did to him – and I know that if it was ever broken, I'd be shattered.

My face pales slightly. I wonder if I'll ever be able to tell him how sorry I am.

"Stop thinking so hard," he says softly, his fingers trailing over my skin to tickle me lightly under the chin. My lips trail up shakily in response.

"Sure," I whisper back in answer, but it's drowned out by the sound of the door clicking open.

We lock gazes for a minute before we both turn, in sync, to the noise.

And there the President stands.

I swallow noisily as he surveys us. His eyes drifting down to our connected hands – lingering – and making me want to simultaneously snatch my hand out from Edward's and run away, while also wanting to hang on for dear life and hope he won't let go.

His eyes land on my borrowed clothes and my plastered up neck, and even though I can't fathom the emotion turning over in his blue glaze, each sweep of them makes me feel increasingly uneasy and on edge. Maybe it's ridiculous to feel this way, after all, hadn't he been absurdly nice to me thus far? – Not blaming me, not punishing me, and even letting me _stay_ in his _home_?

Nevertheless, I can't force myself to relax. Standing next to Edward – what if that changes how the President feels?

I naw on my bottom lip, waiting.

"Edward," he says, voice filled with emotion. I look up at the receiver and see his facial features drawn tightly. He gives nothing away.

"Miss Swan," the President continues, shifting his eyes to me. I have to fight the urge to draw my gaze away from his. "Please, come in." He opens the door wider and gestures us into his office. I sense Edward hesitating, only minutely, but hesitating nonetheless. That, along with his closed of expression, confuses me.

_That's his dad,_ I think. _Granted, he doesn't remember him, but he didn't even _know_ me to remember. And he was _nicer_ to me._

Something here is clearly not right.

Edward tugs on my hand gently to walk us both into the office. My legs are wobbly as we go in, and I keep my eyes on Edward's back as we move forward. I have the urge to reach out and touch the muscles underneath, to feel his stability, and solidity, fully and completely. But I don't. I find that his hand is enough.

And also, I don't think it would help my image any if the President thought I was feeling up his son.

…

…

Which I wouldn't do.

Of course I wouldn't.

Once we're seated, we're forced to break our hold. The chairs are spaced enough apart that it would be awkward and probably ache if we didn't let go. So we do. I glance at Edward out of the corner of my eye as the President takes his place behind the desk in front of us, and he shoots me back an assuring smile.

Facing forward, my eyes look to the President to find him watching us with that curious look on his face once again. I can't decipher whether it's good or bad, or maybe just _is_, but I'm hoping for the best.

"This is . . . interesting."

I start chewing my lip in earnest after the blue-eyed, blonde man speaks, a slow smile stretching across his face as he regards us; his vision darting between me and his son quickly.

I notice Edward stiffen out of the corner of my eye. "Interesting how?" he demands lowly, quietly, his voice leaking with hostility. My head snaps to him in surprise – I'm pretty sure I'm gaping – but his gaze stays fixed on his father's face. Shooting my eyes back to the man behind the desk, he doesn't look shocked like me, rather, he seems completely and utterly nonplussed, like he expects it . . . or is used to it.

I sink back into my seat, dumbfounded as father and son stare at each other, the tension in the air so palpable you could slice it with a knife.

"Just this." The President motions his head between the two of us. "You were never one to fall for a pretty face," he says, eyes flicking to me momentarily before settling back on Edward once more. My cheeks burn at his inclination, and I find my head drooping, my eyes finding my fidgeting fingers in my lap.

Edward doesn't respond, but I can hear his breath as it hits the airwaves. I feel scarily in tune to him, like our hearts pump the same rhythm and our lids blink closed and open at the same time.

"Things change."

My breath halts and my eyes widen at Edward's quiet words.

"Amnesia will do that to you."

I can't fight the cringe that the President's words incite. I know what I did, he knows what I did . . . Edward doesn't know. And he just seems to be rubbing this fact in my _face_. Panic seizes my heart quick and vice-like, what if he tells him? I'm not sure how Edward would react to becoming privy to another lie.

I swallow with some difficulty.

"What did you want with Bella?" Edward asks abruptly, tone sharp and tight like all his patience has worn thin.

I look up at the use of my name, my stare going straight to the President's. I can't look at Edward right now with the kind of thoughts that are whizzing through my head. I'm certain he'd be able to read what's clearly written all over my face.

"Miss Swan," the President says, his eyes returning back to mine. He seems to be all business once again. "I wanted to apologise once again for how you've been treated." He motions towards my neck. "Repercussions have taken place, and Felix will be – "

"Wait a minute!" Edward snaps, his voice suddenly loud and volatile. I can't stop my eyes from darting to him – surprised once again. "You know who did this to her?"

"I do," the President answers, seemingly warily.

"And how do you know?" Edward demands, not missing a beat, his fingers clenching and unclenching on his thighs.

President Cullen clears his throat, looking all of a sudden contrite. "He was one of my – "

"I should have known!" Edward slams his hand down on the desk in front of him. I flinch, but his dad doesn't even bat an eyelid. "It was you," he says, disbelief coating his speech. "You're the one who – "

"Now, now," the President interrupts, his gaze heavy and stern. "I didn't know what had gone on. I never dreamed that one of my most trusted employee's would resort to such . . . " he hesitates, his eyes leaving his son to look at my face, my neck and my exposed arms, " . . . drastic and volatile measures."

Edward scoffs in return, pulling his hands away from the desk and rising abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process. "Don't give me that bullshit! You knew exactly what he was capable of, and you didn't do a damn thing to stop it. You're only feeling guilty now because you can see the results." He shakes his head, his features twisting up unpleasantly. "You're _disgusting_."

The President rises, too, but more calmly than his fuming son. "Just . . . " he trails off, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, " . . . just calm down, son."

They stare at each other, Edward's eyes steely, Carlisle's like a calm, but _waiting_ for the storm instead of _being_ the storm.

_Edward_ is said storm.

And when he speaks, his voice sends my skin rippling with goose bumps.

"Fuck you."


	33. 32: A new home

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **RobsTip, angelface12, Evolutions Vampire, bree, vickybooksxtwilightx, musicfreak239, arbitrarygirl, r0se sHuiEl, Matthias Stormcrow, snowiewolf, robyn odei-ntiri, seekerharmoney, TouteSeule, LoveACullen, girl28121997, nothingisbutwhatisnot, FleurdeLysff, xxDeadInsidexx, CJluvzdecullens, MadiiLoves, DizzyIzzyCullen, celebritystar** and one **Guest **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

Where we left off: Edward is not too happy . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I gain a new home.  
**

The room is completely silent after Edward's harshly uttered expletive. I don't even hear anyone _breathe_, but that's probably because of the violent rushing of blood currently pounding through my ears.

My eyes remain fixed on Edward as his remain fixed on his dad. I can't bring myself to look away from him – he seems so _different_ right now. Gone is the soft-spoken, moss-eyed man that led me into this room, instead he's been replaced by the steely and frighteningly watchful one I'd briefed glimpses of before – when I told him I knew who he was, when I showed him my wounds.

But this time, it seems more severe – more personal somehow. He's bothered, annoyed, fuming – in an utter _rage_.

Something to do with his dad.

Something to do with _me_.

Abruptly, he stalks the distance between us, closing it until he stands to the side of me, but never releasing his father's eyes. "Come on, Bella," he says, voice cool but strained, a little rough around the edges. "We're leaving."

I look down at his outstretched palm with wide-eyes. My hand stays glued to my other one in my lap, not reaching out for his. It's strange, before now I would have taken it without a second thought, probably wouldn't have even realised I was doing it – I just _would have_. But there's something . . . wrong about this situation. I know that getting up and leaving right now will accomplish nothing. The President has something to say to me – be it a harsh word or an apology, a prison sentence or a restraining order. I just need to _know_.

When I look back up at Edward, I find his eyes are on me now. Green blocks cracking slightly under my brown; confusion, questions, and a distinct hurt as I remain seated, and not with him.

My heart aches a little in my chest. "Please," I whisper, and I hope he understands what I'm pleading for.

And slowly, so slowly, his hand drops from where it was trying to meet with mine.

He looks away from me then, backing away, and with each step he takes my chest tugs a little more, tightens a little more. He picks up the chair he previously knocked over and quietly lowers himself onto it.

I stare at the side of his face, willing him to look at me. He lets out a sigh, likely feeling the burn, and then shoots me a quick glance, doing a double take when he notices my arm extended, my fingers grasping the air, fingers yearning for his.

When his eyes drift to mine, I smile weakly at him, tilting my head to the side a little.

He tilts his back, his cloudy eyes clearing slightly. He rises quickly, picking up the chair and placing it next to mine before sitting again. With eyes connected, he places his hand in mine, threading our fingers together in a firm hold. He reaches up with his other hand, brushing my cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers, sending sparks all along my flesh.

He smiles at me, and I smile back, red and achy, but okay nonetheless.

A throat being cleared brings us both crashing to reality.

Our gazes snap forward at the same time; observing the President observing us. His eyes are difficult to read, but I think he might be suppressing a smile.

I flush heavier as Edward's fingers trail down from my cheek and back into his lap. He moves our connected hands to rest on my thigh – his touch both scorching and comforting, our hold like a show of unity.

_We are unbroken._

Breathing out a quiet, shaky breath through my lips, I try to prepare myself.

"As I was saying," the President goes on smoothly as if the last 5 or 10 minutes hadn't just occurred. "I offer my condolences about the whole ordeal. It seems I was gravely . . . misinformed by my sources." My eyebrows furrow at that, and I can't help but wonder who these "sources" were, and what verbal untruths they had been spreading. Shooting a quick glance over at Edward, I realise that the only way he could be properly informed about _anything_ is if it came from one of our mouths.

Edward must have told him something . . . something in my favour.

I think it's a little sad that I feel surprised.

The President doesn't continue speaking, but looks to me, as if asking.

"I-It's okay," I stutter-whisper, the air around me feeling a little difficult to breathe in.

I feel as Edward's hand tenses slightly around mine, so I quickly place my other hand a-top his, tracing his tendons, knuckles and veins until he relaxes. His eyes flit and find mine briefly between the space and air and dimensions around us. They send me one message, one phrase – a string of words that are heavy with meaning and importance.

_It's not okay._

I press my lips together and look away, feeling emotion wash over me like a wave in a storm.

The President nods, jarring me back to the present moment. "He will be punished," he says, his voice clear and succinct, as if every word holds a weight and he's emphasizing it. I notice his eyes as they drift over to Edward's, as if trying to get the point across to him, too.

Edward nods stiffly in the corner of my eye, his eyes locked on his dad's like he's . . . assessing.

"And I'm sorry, but you won't be able to go back to your home . . . not for a while at least," he continues, moving his eyes back to mine. "There was some . . . " he hesitates, ". . . damage sustained."

I pale at his words, my grip on Edward's hand falling limp. "Damage?" I croak out.

The President nods. "But be reassured that it will be restored to how it once was."

"But . . . but – " I splutter. "Where will I live in the meantime?"

"I have secured a hotel suite for you – "

"No."

My head whips around so fast I'm positively sure I get whiplash. Edward's one-word input into the conversation surprises me just as much as his denial does. _No_?

"No?" The President seemingly repeats my thought.

Edward frowns back at his father. "Bella's not staying in some seedy hotel while you fix her flat – which, by the way, I'm in no doubt you're the cause of."

Mr Cullen sighs. "It's not a seedy – "

"I'm not letting her go under your direction."

Edward regards his father stonily beneath dark eyes before flicking emerald to wet earth. He strokes his thumb over my palm and smiles at me a little sadly, his eyes trailing over my skin and touching my heart in ways its never been touched.

Turning back to his father, he says pointedly, "I don't trust you." At the President's quiet intake of breath he goes on, "If she goes, so do I."

A jolt of affection and relief spikes through me at his words, because honestly, the last thing I want is to be somewhere foreign with no-one to help me through. Even if I don't think the President will send more of his employee's to rough me around – why would he now? – I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be without Edward.

Pressing his lips together, the President seems to be struggling for the first time during this talk. "What do you propose then, son?" he sighs, sounding worn-out and resigned.

Edward doesn't miss a beat. "She stays here – with me."

I turn my head to gawp at him. There is absolutely _no way_ he can be serious right now.

Apparently, the President thinks the same.

"Edward, be reasonable."

"I _am_ being reasonable," he insists boldly, squeezing his hand around mine. "You took her out of her home, you let people _abuse_ her, and now you're telling her that you've destroyed the only place she had to go." His eyes hold his fathers, green and blue, startling jade against wary indigo. "Tell me how _unreasonable_ that is."

Silence punctuates the air then, father's eyes wavering under son's intense stare. I feel bad about this whole situation and wonder if I should, but still do.

I break the quiet this time. "Edward," I say gently, prompting his head to turn toward me. "It's fine. I can stay with my dad. I told you about him, remember? He lives really close by."

He shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly before reopening them again. "And how would you explain . . . " he trails off, eyes roving all over me and I know what he means. "Please don't fight me on this, Bella. _Please_." His eyes bore intensely in mine, his soft voice hitting and lighting up my insides. He doesn't want me to go. Maybe because he's scared of what might happen when I do.

My throat tightens – a knot forming. I can only nod in response.

He leans back, relaxing into his chair a little.

"Well," the President sighs, bringing our attention back to him. "I can see there's no other way. But I can't be sure how your mother, or siblings, is going to react to this news, Edward," he says, the undertone of a warning in his voice.

Edward says back simply, "They will understand."

The President rubs at his temples, uttering a quiet, "very well."

After another 10 minutes or so that are filled with sound and talking that just seem to wash straight over me, we're free to leave. I walk out of the office like my legs are made of jelly, feeling Edward close behind, his heat scorching my back. I stop on the way out at the secretary's station – Jane is nowhere to be seen – and fill out the details I was told to fill out. As requested by the President, I also jot down my job details, so I won't get sacked.

I still think I will though.

As Edward leads me back up into the room I was previously in, there's really no other emotion whizzing through my system other than _shock_. This whole situation . . . everything . . .

"I feel like I've been dropped into the twilight zone," I say numbly, blinking up at Edward.

He smiles at me crookedly, trailing a lone finger down my cheek. "Well . . . then I'm glad I dropped in here with you."

I bite my lip, bringing my hand up to catch his finger as it traces under my eye and over the apple of my cheek. Quietly, afraid to break the atmosphere of the room, I whisper, "Me too," right before I dive into his chest and proceed to hug him with all I have in me.

My cheek against his chest and under my breath an almost silent – _Thank you._


	34. 33: Stars and hearts

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **robyn odei-ntiri, Matthias Stormcrow, BritPit, TouteSeule, r0se sHuiEl, seekerharmoney, RobsTip, mjwc77, Princess A-ya 101, DizzyIzzyCullen, arbitarygirl, bellybean, IvyMasonCullen, xxDeadInsidexx, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, Maggie Davis** and two **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! I might not get around to replying to each review, but know that I truly treasure and appreciate each one. :)

**p.s.** This chapter isn't very long, but it just felt _right_ to end it where it does. Expect the next chapter sooner than they've been coming in lately. :)

Where we left off: Bella gained a new abode . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . we see some stars and feel two hearts.  
**

For a while all we do is lay on the bed, staring out of the window that puts my measly one to shame in both size and style. We watch as the sky darkens, day turning into twilight, studding the midnight sky with bright balls of twinkling light, like diamonds reflecting sparks in the sun.

"It's lovely," I say of the sky, the first words to disrupt the quiet air for hours; content enough in ourselves and each other to just _be_.

He doesn't respond, but I feel the rumble in his chest under my cheek as he hums. Slowly, he sits up – inadvertently bringing me with him – and grasps my hand. He walks us over to said window before placing his hand flat on the glass – long fingers spreading wide, fingers seemingly so pale against the midnight sky, like a white cut out shape in a darkened room. He pushes against the pane, and the windows come apart.

_Literally_.

They part like they were meant to, swinging open with the slightest of ease. To my surprise, I can now see that there's a balcony before us. _Oh_. I guess they _were_ meant to part after all.

I look up at Edward in surprise, and he smiles back at me crookedly.

Branching out deeper, it's no shock to find that the balcony is very, very big. (It's the _Whitehouse_, what would you expect?) The floor is smooth and almost _soft_ under my bare feet. To my right and left there are columns that makes the sides, and looking up, we're afforded our very own ceiling, high and arched and just about spectacular.

"This is . . . " I trail off.

"Surreal," he fills in, squeezing my hand lightly.

I nod dumbly up at the ceiling before looking out into the expanse of the sky and the stars. "It's beautiful though," I say, shaking my head lightly. "I mean, I don't think I've ever felt so _close_ to the stars before." I step further out onto the balcony, noticing that the ceiling cuts off about halfway, so when I look up, it's just hundreds of white dots against black ink. "Like you could just reach out and touch them."

Loosening my hand from Edward's, I lift it high, and with my pointer finger trace across the strikingly beautiful outset before us. I step forward once more until my front presses against the coolness of the wall that keeps me from falling a _very_ long way down. There's always been something so appealing in the stars for me. The idea of something so far away – so _free_ – yet so willing to share its shine with the whole world. To be something in the dark . . . to be the brightness that guides you home when you're lost, or gives you hope when you're afraid.

"Beautiful," I hear Edward whisper from somewhere behind me. I startle slightly, having been lost in a dimension where people didn't wander. Before I can turn around, I feel his heat against my back – humming sparks – and I stiffen before I can stop myself.

"Hey," he croons quietly into my ear, his warm breath making the skin on the back of my neck ripple with goose bumps – such a startling contrast against the chill in the outside air. "It's just me." His arms rise on either side of me, caging me in with his delicious heat.

Warmth floods my cheeks. My whole body bursts into flames as he dips his head down into my neck, running the tip if his nose along my skin. I melt back into him, my body suddenly feeling like jelly, suddenly feeling like not my own.

My hands fall from the stars onto the balcony with a _slap_.

Edward chuckles, setting his chest vibrating and my eyes closing in embarrassment. He quickly relocates his hands, sliding them under mine and entwining our fingers together. His hands are large and warm in comparison to my cold and small ones. He brushes the tips of his fingers across my knuckles, making me smile.

"Edward," I whisper, reopening my eyes. "Do you really think . . . are your family really going to be okay with this? Me staying here, I mean?"

He squeezes my hands. "I'm certain," he assures me, his warm breath hitting the base of my neck, prompting the eruption of dozens of goose bumps. "I . . . I told them about you."

My face pales, the blood rushing away immediately. "N-nothing too bad, I hope?" I attempt to joke, but the quiver in my voice gives me away.

"Nothing bad at all," he promises, giving my hands another small squeeze. "They like you." My eyes widen at his, my mouth dropping open to gape. "And they want to meet you."

"Are you serious?" I blurt out.

I can feel as his lips lift against my skin – capturing a smile. "Completely."

I open and close my mouth many times without being able to form any words, all the time his smile stays indented into my skin. I'm pretty sure he's finding amusement in my inability to speak.

"How can – but I – they can't – _how_ – "

He laughs.

Finally, with a huff, I say, "Your entire family is _crazy_."

"Not crazy," he murmurs, lifting his head a little so his lips rest on the nape of my neck. "Just not blind."

I frown up at the sky. "What do you mean?"

He sighs, disturbing the hairs on the back of my neck and making me shiver. Most likely mistaking it for one from the cold, he untangles his tangled hands from mine and slide, slide, slides them down my arms and then slip, slip, slips them down my sides until they reach my waist. He pulls me back flush into his chest being, for all intents and purposes, my own heated blanket.

I bite my lip. Something about not letting inappropriate noises escape again.

"They say I'm better," he starts quietly, hugging me tight. "They say I'm happier . . . than I was before." I blink quickly, suddenly feeling a sting in my eyes that has nothing to do with the weather but everything to do with the man who now holds me. Pulling my hands from the balcony, I place them overtop his. "And I know you're the reason for that. I think they know that, too."

I close my eyes, abruptly overwhelmed. "You can't know that." I tell him in a whisper.

"Yes," he insists, just as quietly but so, so earnest. "Yes, I can." His hands slither on my waist, gradually spinning me around until I face him, but I have yet to open my eyes. I can feel his breath on my face – his apple scent smell that's hotter, more like apple pie or apple crumble – more of a hunger deep inside me somewhere that demands the fulfilment of full, the dissipation of empty.

I lick my lips.

"You know why?" he whispers, prompting me to pull my eyes open – but slowly. I shake my head, noticing how his eyes glitter in the darkness in an almost ethereal way.

"Because I can feel it." He slides one arm from around my waist and picks up one of my hands in his now free one. He slides our joined hands up his chest until I can feel the distinct _thump thump_ of his heart underneath my palm. When I look into his eyes, he tells me in a hushed whisper, "Right here."


	35. 34: Not needing to say

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **LaVonne Cullen, bellybeans, angelface12, Matthias Stormcrow, RobsTip, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, Lacy Lissie, xxDeadInsidexx, ellaryne, seekerharmoney, robyn odei-ntiri, LoveACullen, Tema Edward Rules All, girl28121997, DizzyIzzyCullen, SammiHammi, MadiiLoves, vampdreams **and one** Guest **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

**p.s.** I apologise for the wait! I've been busy with college and learning and writing my personal statment for uni (eep!). You guys know how it is... priorities and all that. :P This chapter doesn't move the pace of the story as a whole along much, but I just felt I needed to get something out there to you guys. Next chapter I'm thinking maybe it's time to mee the siblings... and the mother?

**p.p.s. (writing this reply in the a/n as to absolve any issues any other people might have had) To Lacy Lissie**... I have never been to DC or the white house. I wasn't aware you couldn't see the stars from either, but I won't apologise for writing that the characters within my story could. I live in England in a big city, so I can understand where you're coming from with the lack of stars due to light pollution, but this is just fiction ~ I'm using artistic licence, if you will. Stars are relevant to Bella, so I wouldn't replace them with the Washington Monument or anything, because it would just absolutely not fit with what I was trying to do last chapter. Don't take anything in this story too seriously, as I'm just purely writing most of it based off my own imagination. But thank you for your comments. :)

Where we left off: Edward and Bella were star-watching and heart-hearing . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . I tell him the truth, but as it turns out, I don't really need to.  
**

_"Because I can feel it." He slides one arm from around my waist and picks up one of my hands in his now free one. He slides our joined hands up his chest until I can feel the distinct __thump thump__ of his heart underneath my palm. When I look into his eyes, he tells me in a hushed whisper, "Right here."_

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers flexing back and forth over the soft cotton of his shirt, the quick beat of his heart. My mind whirs, and I more than want to believe what he's saying, but something is holding me back, and making me doubt where I don't want to doubt.

Sliding my hand up from his chest, I move up the side of his face – briefly cupping his cheek – before moving up to his forehead, until finally I let my hand rest in his hair. I tell him quietly, "But not here."

His eyes find mine in the dark, full of questions. "Bella?" he asks inquiringly, green searching brown like a person trying to find the candle in the dark. I press my lips together, fisting my hand in his hair before uncurling my fingers and letting my hand drop from him altogether. I sigh, clasping my fingers together nervously.

"Edward," I say, chewing on my bottom lip. "There's something I need to tell you."

He watches me warily. "Okay . . . ?"

I blink away from his eyes, quickly turning on the spot to see the stars again. They seem to have lost some of their shine.

Turning back around, I motion toward the room we were originally in. "Maybe we should go inside."

His brows are furrowed, but he doesn't object, just follows after me into the room and closes the doors behind us. I fumble for a switch on the wall, and blink harshly once artificial light eclipses the room. I walk over to the large bed and sit on the edge, Edward follows in pursuit, sitting beside me, hands folded in his lap.

I clear my throat nervously. He looks at me, quiet, waiting, for all intents and purposes the perfect listener.

For once, I just wish he'd not hear me.

I rise up from my spot beside him and start pacing up and down. "Do you remember," I start, pausing only to run my hands through my hair before resuming my quick walk again, "when I told you about you – really told you?" My nervous energy doesn't allow my feet to stop, to really properly check that he gets my meaning.

"Yes," he says, after what seems like a significant pause.

"Well," I say, unintentionally stalling as my feet continue to meaner on. "That's not all I needed to tell you." I shake my head. "Not all I _should_ have told you." Facing away from him, my voice comes out almost monotone, though there's a quiver in the undertone. I fold my arms across my chest, and my eyes burn at things that I see, but don't necessarily register in my vision.

"Bella . . . " he trails off. "Whatever it is . . . "

"It was me," I quickly blurt out, slapping my hand over my mouth afterwards in horror.

"What was you?" he asks from somewhere behind me, sounding wholly confused.

I let out a sigh, closing my eyes and moving my palm to my forehead. I guess it's out there now.

"I'm the reason you can't remember . . . _anything_." When he doesn't respond, I continue, "I hit you with my truck."

The silence that follows feels like a heavy weight in the air; my tongue and throat and stomach lined in thick, clogging fumes. I struggle to swallow, and my eyes, which had been previously closed, all of sudden snap open, so I'm left to watch the glamour of the things around me slowly fade away as realisation creeps in.

_I'm the reason you can't remember anything._

_I hit you with my truck._

"I'm sorry," I say, finding once I've started spewing out truths, I just can't seem to stop. "It's all my fault."

I wait with baited breath, not sure I do want him to say something, not sure I don't want him too.

"I figured as much," he says quietly.

My eyes widen further, my mouth gapes. I still don't turn around.

"_What_?" I manage to gasp out after a few minutes of quiet on my part.

"I never asked," he continues, his utterance low but not angry, "because I'd already figured as much."

I blink dumbly at the door in front of me.

"I mean, I didn't know straight away, but after a while . . . the situation just seemed so clear to me. But it didn't matter anyway by that point."

"_Didn't matter_?" I ask, voice shrill.

"No," he says, and I know he's shaking his head in the distance between us. "You were a good person – you were helping me." I sense a shrug. "You didn't seem the type to _hit and run_." And I can practically _feel_ the corner of his lip raising.

I huff.

He chuckles.

"It was an accident," I hedge, voice pleading. "I didn't mean to run you over – honestly."

His hands touch my shoulders lightly before spinning me around to face him. I look up into his eyes carefully, slowly, warily.

"I know," he says, and he's _smiling_. "Well, I wasn't sure how it happened, but I believe you."

I regard him sceptically. "Why? How do you know I don't just knock people over with the beast-mobile for kicks?"

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound crystal clear and fresh, like pond water on a winter morning. "I just know," he reaffirms once he's all laughed-out.

I raise my eyebrows.

He raises his back. "I don't need a reason."

I sigh.

He smiles.

"Why aren't you mad at me?" I say, feeling guilt curl in my stomach.

He shrugs, squeezing my shoulders gently as he does. "I don't like being mad at you." I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "Also," he says, shooting me a look that says _shush, you._ "There's no reason _to_ be mad."

"But I gave you amnesia!" I say, widening my eyes. "AMNESIA."

"It was an accident, you took care of me and my memory will come back. It's alright, Bella, really," he assures me, and his eyes tell me it's alright too.

I just stare at him, amazed. "You're kind of crazy."

"Thank you," he replies, smiling a mega-watt smile at me. He removes his hands from my shoulders to throw his arm around them instead. He quickly leans down and pecks both of my cheeks. "I like you, too."


	36. 35: Fishing and accidental touches

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

And thanks to **musicfreak239, angelface12, Team Edward Rules All, Matthias Stormcrow, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, Miss D'Cute, SammiHammi, mjwc77, celebritystar, twiclare, RobsTip, DizzyIzzyCullen, FenixMJR, Maggie Davis, LoveACullen, seekerharmoney **and one** Guest **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

Where we left off: Edward and Bella had a little talk . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One where . . . I don't have any two's and Edward "accidentally" touches my, um . . . well, you'll see.**

"Got any . . . two's?"

"Go fish."

_A Huff. A muttered, "_fine."

"Do you have any Kings?"

_Silent swear word, handing over of the aforementioned card._

_Victorious smile._

"Thanks."

_Stink eye._

"Don't mention it."

_Intense staring at cards._

"Got any . . . fives?"

_Casual_, "Go fish."

Edward throws down his cards onto the bed, a _not amused_ expression taking residence on his features. "_Go fish_?" he asks me, voice high. "Go fish for the _fifteenth_ _time_?"

I shrug, looking up at him innocently.

His eyes catch mine, staring at me solidly. "You, Bella Swan, are a little cheat."

I mock-gasp, holding my cards to my chest. "I would _never_," I tell him using my most earnest tone, "_ever_ cheat, Edward Cullen."

His eyebrows climb until they're practically nestling inside of the bronze mess a-top his head. "You sure about that?"

I nod. "Positive."

"Well," he says, putting forth his palms flat out on the bed near my knees. He looks like he's getting ready to creep. I eye him suspiciously as I shuffle back a bit. "You wouldn't mind me looking then."

My eyes widen as I clutch the cards to me even tighter.

"Would you?" He holds his hands out in front of him, asking.

I shake my head adamantly. "You can't see my cards," I say empathetically. "_That's_ cheating."

"You've seen mine."

My eyes unwillingly dart to his pile splayed out even as I go to protest.

"Oh, um . . . whoops?"

His arms span out just as I vault myself backwards off the bed, somehow retaining my balance even though I wobble. I peek down to make sure my cards are all still safely tucked against my chest.

I look back up at him, grinning.

He growls.

I squeak.

I dash off again a millisecond after he jumps off the bed with a grace I wish I had. His movements are fluid as he chases after me, his legs longer. The bed becomes the only obstacle between us as we circle each other around it.

"Just put the cards down on the bed, Bella. Nice and slow."

I was _affronted_. "Not in this lifetime, pal."

We've come to a standstill, facing each other across the mattress.

"Well, in that case . . . "

He suddenly lunges across the space between us, and I feel his fingertips slipping between the fabric of my top as I just miss his grab.

I laugh evilly, running for the door. The hand not holding the cards is stretched out – grasping at the air for the handle. I've only just touched the cold metal when –

"_Gotcha."_

I only have time to gasp before I'm being spun around by hands on my waist. Edward's face looms expectantly in front of mine – a smirk on his lips as he regards me and the cards.

And I can't help it.

I really just _can't_ help it.

The cards go flying.

Right. In. His. Face.

I slap my hands over my mouth.

One even lands in his hair.

He is wide-eyed.

"I'm sorry!" I squeak out from beneath my palms. "I panicked!"

His hands tighten around my waist. He does that growly noise again before picking me up completely off the floor – _literally lifting me up off my feet_ – and slinging me over his shoulder.

I let out an "_oof" _as my stomach comes into contact with his hard shoulder.

"Edward Cullen, put me down right now!"

"Okay," he replies easily before loosening his hold on my legs the tiniest bit.

I squeak, fisting my hands into his shirt. "Don't drop me, don't you _dare_!"

He laughs, tightening his grip once more. "_Do_ put me down, _don't_ put me down . . . "

I press my forehead into his back, involuntarily smiling. "You're mean."

He squeezes my legs gently. "How so?"

"Teasing me."

He starts walking over to the bed. "But I plan to deliver."

The beginning of "_wha_ – " is all that escapes me before I'm being deposited onto the bed – face down, and face planting the quilt.

A, "_mmmffffffhhhhhhhhhdwaaaaaard !"_ escapes me.

I struggle with the mattress, before abruptly stilling where I am – eyes widening.

My body pauses before quickly righting itself. I shoot up quickly, my face flushes for multiple reasons. Edward kneels on the bed next to me, staring at his hand like he's never seen it before.

_Edward_ just touched my, um . . . _derriere_.

He must sense me gaping at him, because he slowly moves his eyes to mine.

"Um . . . " he breathes, ". . . whoops?"

"You just touched my – "

"I know," he interrupts quickly, face flushing. "It was an, um, accident. Sorry, sorry, sorry," he rushes out, his eyes alternating between my eyes and his hand.

I shake my head, smiling, trying to push my embarrassment away. "It's fine."

I think I must be hearing things when I hear a quiet, "_it is_."

I quickly reach up and pluck the card from his hair, trying to deflate the sudden tension in the room. I peer down at it. "Hey, guess I did have a two, after all." I joke, peering up at him and showing him the card.

But he's not looking at the card. Instead, he's looking at me with the strangest expression I've ever seen grace his face. I don't know what it means, but I suddenly feel warmer.

_Is it hot in here?_

His hand reaches up just as mine drops back down onto the bed. His fingers capture, gently pushing back hair that had fallen into my face; his fingertips trailing gently across my cheek.

My breath hitches as he slowly starts to close the distance between us. The air sizzles with tension and something akin to heat. My heart picks up tempo in my chest and my palms start to sweat. My eyelids grow heavy, and my mouth parts when I feel his nose brush against mine.

His smell attacks my senses – _apple pie, apple crumble, apple, apple, apple – _and his hand tugs my face closer towards his.

My lips feel dry, so I wet them. And all my eyes see are _his_ eyes darkening as they trace the contours of my mouth.

My lids drop completely when I feel his mouth on my neck, gently pressing and pursing hot lips against my skin, creating a path of fire as he moves up and up and up the column of my throat. I let out a little sigh when his lips swerve across and meet the dip in my collarbone. Unconsciously, one of my hands moves up and fists in his hair, holding him tight against me. He groans, and my stomach seems all of a sudden tight and wound up.

He presses little kisses up my chin until his mouth hovers above mine – mere centimetres away. My breathing is heavy and laboured like I've just run a marathon, but I can't find it in me to care because his is the same, too. His other hand rises to cup the other side of my face and my fist tightens in his hair.

"C-can I-I . . . " he stutters harshly, eyes molten and voice desire.

In answer to his question, I chase him across the minuscule distance until my lips meet his.

* * *

**A/N: **

**The end.**

**...  
**

**Just kidding. ;) **

**Does this count as a cockblock - kissblock?  
**

**I promise E's family will be making an appearance soon.  
**

**Until next time!  
**


	37. 36: It's hugging, not attacking

**A/N:** Thanks to those who favourited/alerted. :)

**p.s.** so, so, so, so, so sorry for the wait!

**p.p.s** we reached (and passed) the **500** review mark last chapter! Thank you all so much! :')

And thanks to** LaVonne Cullen, RobsTip, xxDeadInsidexx, Matthias Stormcrow, SammiHammi, DizzyIzzyCullen, twiclare, musicfreak239, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, LoveACullen, gigi9598, angelface12, LadyAesa, Maggie Davis, Team Edward Rules All, Miss D'Cute, soniya11, xxlovethisxx annalee2472, ArianaRizCullen, Channyn **and three **Guest's **for reviewing last chapter! You guys rock! :D

Where we left off: It was getting hot in here . . .

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . it's not **_**attacking**_**, it's **_**hugging**_**.**

_"C-can I-I . . . " he stutters harshly, eyes molten and voice desire._

_In answer to his question, I chase him across the minuscule distance until my lips meet his._

As soon as our lips touch, it's as if time pauses itself. We freeze – together – but it's more comfortable than a freeze . . . it's more of a stillness in a moment right before something _big_ and _explosive_ happens.

We take a breath – in sync – and there's a shudder, a judder. And I'm not sure whether it originated from me or whether it originated from him, but I'm sure of the pleasant tingles it sends down my spine, and the goose bumps that erupt on my skin from the force of it.

We breathe . . .

. . . and then we take.

Our lips move softly, gently, hesitantly. Our movements are slow and unhurried, and when his fingertips touch my cheek sweetly, reverently, it's _tender_.

But then –

_Knock, knock, knock._

_Knock, knock, knock. _

I abruptly freeze and my eyes snap open. Green stares back at me, and it suddenly feels like I've been doused in a bucket of ice cold water.

_Oh my God._

_Oh my GOD._

_OH MY GOD!_

I tear myself away once the knocks sound again, this time more hurried and urgent. I leap off the bed and back away, turning once I'm inches from the wall – now in front of me. The space around us is silent but noisy with the sound of my heartbeat and our breaths.

"Bella – "

"The door," I cut him off shrilly, fighting hysteria. "You should get it."

I can feel the burn of his eyes on my back while I chew my lip into my mouth until its raw. He sighs – weighty – and then I hear his footsteps – _pad, pad, pad_ – until he reaches the door. I swallow thickly – not even concerned about whoever's on the other side of it, unable to process anything but what I – _we_ – just did.

"Now's not a good time," I hear Edward say lowly from somewhere behind me. "Come back later."

"But Edward," a voice responds – bells like his but higher in pitch – "I want to meet her. You said I could."

"And you can, but not now, okay? Maybe – "

His cuts of mid-sentence and that's when I swivel around – albeit tentatively. My eyes widen as I take in the scene; Edward is pushed back against the door as a small – but very obviously _mighty_ – girl marches into the room. She is five foot nothing and her limbs are all sinew and grace. She reminds me of a fairy, a pixie.

She pauses in the middle of the room. "Bella?" she inquires, looking up at me, tilting her head to the side as if trying to figure some strange puzzle out. Her voice holds nothing but demand.

"Um," I stammer, eyes widening even further, suddenly nervous. "Yes?" I squeak out.

Then she attacks.

I let out an _oof_ as she pounces on me, stumbling back a step. My hands hang awkwardly at my sides as hers squeeze the ever-loving _life_ out of me, my face turning purple.

"Alice!" Edward hisses at her, crossing the room in two quick strides. He gently but with purpose untangles her arms from around my neck. Breath rushes back into my lungs immediately and I crouch over a little, catching my breath.

"Oh," Alice says guiltily, "I'm sorry."

I wave her off, and say between breaths, "No . . . big . . . deal."

After a second, I'm feeling okay again and resume my former position. Edward looms nearer than I thought, and I stumble back another step, only to be caught by his hand at my back. "Are you alright, Bella?"

I nod, but find I can't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."

"She's _fine_, Edward. Chill out, would you?"

He shoots her a dark look.

"Aren't you going to introduce us now?" she asks, paying no heed to his sour mood, practically _vibrating_ on the spot.

He sighs, lifting a hand to run through his hair. "Alice – this is Bella. Bella, this is my sister, Alice."

It feels strange to hear him say _sister_, but in a good way. "Nice to meet you," I say, offering my hand out awkwardly in front of me. She laughs; like water bubbling in a brook, and takes my hand.

"You have no idea," she replies, smiling brightly.

~#~

I'm pulled from the room by Alice shortly after. Edward protests but ultimately I go with her, even though I'm confused by various things right now, something tells me Alice is safe.

"Pick whatever you want."

"Um, okay. But you really don't need to do this."

"Nonsense! Just go on right ahead."

I hesitate at the wardrobe, looking in at the megalomania of clothes that decorate the entirety of its interior, which is saying a lot considering it's one of those swanky _walk-in_ ones. I take a step inside; immediately assaulted with colours and fabrics, and patent leather shoes and pumps, and studded sequined dresses and wool skirts, and coats and just –

A _lot_ of clothes.

"Good, huh?"

I swivel around to face Alice where she stands at the opening, gesturing her arms about her.

"It's something," I agree. "I've never seen so many clothes in my life."

She smiles and goes about rifling through racks and drawers. I stand where I am, seemingly immobile, caught by all the glamour and shine. And when I peer down, and catch side of myself in a hanging mirror, I suddenly feel inadequate and uncomfortable in the presence of such fine things – Alice included.

"Here," Alice says gently, snapping me out of my reverie. I look down to see what she's offering me; a pair of loose fitting jeans and a simple cotton tee.

"Thanks," I say, relieved. This is where I'm comfortable.

She smiles at me like she knows and says, "You're welcome."

~#~

Afterwards, Alice suggests a tour of the Whitehouse.

"I bet Edward hasn't you shown you around yet."

"Not really," I say, walking beside her. "But I don't mind. This place is kind of . . . " I hesitate, not wanting her to think I'm insulting her home.

She chuckles, and waves her hand in response. "Don't worry about it," she says. "I know this place can seem quite daunting."

I nod sheepishly. "Kind of. I'm just not used to anything so big. I feel a little lost among all the glamour," I admit, tugging on the ends of my hair nervously.

We walk on for some time, with Alice pointing out particular rooms or ornaments or furniture pieces and talking about them. I'm surprised and impressed, and just a little bit intimidated.

"And this is our library," she says, coming to stop outside a large oak door.

"You guys have your own library?" I ask, my voice mirroring my awe.

"We have several," she says, not in boast but just as a fact – as plain as the grass is green, or the sky is blue.

I blink at her back in disbelief as she pushes the door open.

Then we're surrounded by books and books upon books. It's not small in the least, not a box room like my bedroom in my flat, or even the entire space of my apartment. There must be over a dozen bookshelves lining the space and in the right side of the room there's what looks to be a reading area. Two long couches and a few armchairs all centred around a very grand fireplace. A rich green rug lies over a carpet of cream and there's a beautiful ash coloured piano residing a few feet away.

"Wow," I whisper, and I know that I could look at the rest of the house and this would still be my favourite room. I just want to settle by the rug with a book and a cup of tea, be warmed by the fire, and forget all my troubles.

"I thought you'd like this room," Alice says from somewhere behind me, a smile in her voice. "Edward said you liked books." She pauses. "It was his favourite room, too."

I start lightly, having forgotten she was even there. I tug my eyes away from the fire and turn to her. And in the dim light – the only flickering glow coming from the fire behind me – I actually look at her.

It was that _was_. Like not anymore, like things not remembered – things lost and forgetten.

She has her arms wrapped around her waist, like she's hugging herself. There's a smile on her lips but it looks a little sad, a little lost. In fact, all of a sudden she seems small and vulnerable, like a child with too much of the world in its mind. And it occurs to me – she's the girl I saw on the news.

Alice – his _sister_.

I release a shaky breath; wet eyes and damp cheeks and pleas that went wasted. She is the girl I was running from, the one I was hiding Edward away from.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, throat tight and voice choked. "I'm so sorry."

She motions to the chairs. "Perhaps we should sit."

* * *

**A/N:**

**So, we meet Alice. :)  
**

**You would be right to assume that I have no actual idea whether or not the Whitehouse has one, or several, libraries. That would be cool though, right?**

**Sorry if the chapter wasn't great, I'm feeling in a bit of a rut. :/  
**

**Thank you for reading!  
**


	38. 37: Info overload with a dash of peace

**A/N: **Been a bit busy with college; got two pieces of coursework due before Christmas (eek!). Can't apologise enough for the wait. I hope I haven't lost you all!

And as many of you noted, Alice somehow magically popped up last chapter as Edward's sister. That was a careless mistake on my part, so I apologise. I've gone back and changed Bella's work mate to **Bree**, and Edward's sister will remain Alice. They are in **no way** connected. Again, so sorry for the confusion!

And of course, thanks to **twiclare, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, RobsTip, angleface12, Team Edward Rules All, Edwardforever2, Channyn, seekerharmoney, MadiiLoves, robyn odei-ntiri, Matthias Stormcrow, Dee, annalee2472, reobessed, miranda, twi-addict1 **and one **Guest** for reviewing! Thank you all for being so patient with me. :)

This chapter is pretty long (for this story) so I hope that sort of, kinda makes up for it a little bit? Some of you said in your reviews that the story was losing its way a bit, which I can completely understand, because it had been getting more of a chore than a pleasure to write this, but things have picked up again, I think. I don't know, let me know if you guys think I've got my mojo back! ;)

And blah, blah, blah... onward!

* * *

Edward, who?

**The One Where . . . my information intake goes into overload, but don't worry, mole is at hand to give me some peace.  
**

"There's something you have to understand, Bella."

I peer up at her, refocusing my vision on her where it had previously been on my nervously twitching hands. We've taken two chairs near the fireplace, and she has been quiet for a while. I imagined she might be gathering her thoughts as she stared into the flickering flames of gold and orange. I had been unable to look as she did, seeing the enthusiastic girl drain away as I sat there was too much to bear.

She turns to face me, letting her eyes meet mine. She's shaking her head even before she says anything. "He wasn't happy." The corners of her mouth twist downwards, her eyes growing sombre. "Long before he left . . . he'd been unhappy for a long time."

So he had _left_, and by the sound of things – gone without a trace, too.

I hug my knees to my chest wanly and wait with a fast-pumping heart. He'd run away because he'd been unhappy here? But what could have caused so much strain on him that he felt he had no other option?

Or _who_?

"Emmett and I," she continues, her eyes tracing the fabric of the armchair as her finger does. "It wasn't so bad for us." She shakes her head, as if in disbelief. "It's funny, he wanted a prodigy, and he got one." She looks up at me then, her eyes troubled. "Just not the right kind."

I hug my knees tighter. Her words are cryptic and I might not understand the context of everything she says . . . but there's a sinking feeling – like lead – in my stomach. There is a _who_, and I have my suspicions as to who that _who_ is. And even though I know this story has a happy ending – with Edward safe again – I'm left to wonder if it's really as happy as I think it is.

I swallow thickly. "Go on," I whisper, pleading.

She nods, takes a breath. "My dad . . . he's not the subtle kind." She gives me a weak smile, but it lacks any warmth. "He can be very domineering – and arrogant." She presses her lips together, her little fist clenching on her thigh. "He's not as nice as people think he is all the time."

I cock my head to the side, eyebrows furrowed. I hadn't been able to get a read on the President's character, exactly. One minute he seemed so . . . so . . . _understanding_ – like the first time I was in his office. But then the next time, with Edward, some of his comments were . . . off. He seemed temperamental. Like he could switch as quick as anything at the wrong word.

"He was kind to me," I say quietly, "the first time . . . " I trail off, and then finish, almost inaudibly, "he said I saved him."

Her face visibly softens. "He's not a liar," she says simply. "And I think he does feel guilty. I just hope now he won't push him anymore." Her eyes turn desperate then, the blue turning so intense it startles me slightly. "We can't lose him again."

My heart clenches painfully in my chest; for his sister, his mother, his brother and his father, too. I want to see they _won't_, but how can I be one hundred per cent sure of that? And I think any false words, false _hope_, in this situation, and it would shatter like a glass bubble, and rain down on us until we all bore a mark of some kind.

So instead I say, "I know." Because I _do_ know what loss feels like, and I know how it hurts when you can't do anything about the losing.

"Anyway," she shakes her head, as if to clear it. "I'm getting ahead of myself. I should start at the beginning."

With skin ashen despite the warmth, I nod.

And then I wait.

~#~

About an hour later, I emerge from the library. Alice is quiet as she leads me back to my room, and once there, enquires as if there's anything she can do for me. I shake my head silently, and she hugs me before disappearing down the hallway. _I'll give you space,_ she'd said, _to process. _

I drop down onto the bed once I reach it. And just stare for an immeasurable amount of time at the wall in front of me. Everything seems different. This whole place looks less like a palace now; more of a prison.

Rain spatters against the windows and thunder rumbles nearby but I pay it no head.

_He pushed him into politics, _she'd uttered sadly, _when all he wanted to do was play piano._

My mind flashes to that newspaper clipping I held in my hands – seems like a lifetime ago – with Edward bent over the keys, shielded by a large hoodie, his face obscured but his body language _not_. Curved and close, like he was trying to melt into what he was creating. Like he could become just another note spilled out over the page, splattered with cursive ink he might scribble out.

The blank wall in front of me becomes a clean page; my mind marks it with his would-be sound.

"Oh, Edward," I whisper sadly, dropping my face into my hands. "Does anybody really know you?"

~#~

I'm pacing up and down the length of the room over and over, until there's an unexpected knock at the door.

I jolt, staring at the bulk of wood in surprise. I had momentarily forgotten myself, forgotten where I was; thought I was back at my quant flat with the glow on my bedroom ceiling. I look up, but there are no stars.

No glow.

When the door knocks again, I inhale deeply and rise from the bed. I make my way slowly over to the door, trepidation making my footsteps falter slightly.

_It can only be Edward, _I think. But I'm not sure if this pacifies me or not.

_So much to think about, so much to say . . . _

_And that kiss . . . _

I swallow thickly, willing that particular thought away as I grasp the handle, and pull the door open.

It's not Edward.

A woman of unidentifiable age stands at the threshold. Her hair is long, and red – a beautiful shade that reminds me of the trees in autumn. Her face is pale, but not deathly-so like my own. No, it's like porcelain – she reminds me of one of those china dolls with the painted faces, kind faces. Her eyes are deep and almost _purple_ like Elizabeth Taylor's, and her mouth is lifted into a soft smile.

"Bella?" she asks gently, and I don't miss the way her eyes travel over my exposed skin – the bruised parts. But she's discreet about it, so I try to hide my grimace.

"Um, yes," I reply quietly back, nervously. My palms start to sweat; my heart picks up pace in my chest.

"May I come in?" She makes a motion towards the room.

I'm quick to nod. "O-of course," I stutter, moving aside abruptly. It seems ridiculous for her to ask to enter her own room just because I'm occupying it. When I turn around, she's taken a seat on the bed. And I awkwardly stand there for a minute, suddenly feeling like I'm somewhere I shouldn't be – like I'm intruding.

Which I guess it sort of the case.

"Please," she inquires softly, patting the space next to her. "Come – sit."

After hesitating for a moment longer, I walk stiffly over to the bed, lowering myself down next to her. I find I can't look her in the eyes. "Mrs. Cullen," I utter almost inaudibly, staring at my clasped fingers; bone white and bloodless. "I'm so sorry."

She sighs quietly. "Why are you sorry?"

I continue to stare at my fingers, feeling guilt tear at the corners of my stomach. Because this is his _mother_, and Edward is her _child_, and I hindered her from finding him when I should have been helping. Edward may have forgiven me, but it's harder to ask this of his mother. Not that I have any right to ask anyway_. I'm sorry_ seems so trivial when it hits the air waves – as it often does – and I cringe back from its empty, meaningless sound. If only my words could speak louder than my actions had.

"For taking Edward," I whisper in reply, and then the rest just tumbles out of me before I can stem the flow. "For hurting him and hiding his self, and not being what I should have been to him – his _friend_. For keeping him away for a whole month and not sending him back when I knew how much he was wanted." I take a breath, my lungs straining, my ears hearing only her quiet and fearing the worst. "Most of all I'm sorry for all the undue pain I've caused for your family." My face crumples, and I snatch my hands up and away to press them into my cheeks. My mind is a mess from everything today; my emotions are spiralling.

_Mom had been distraught – she'd blamed herself._

I lower my head and close my eyes. I want to go home and pretend than none of this ever happened – that all those weeks ago I never hit Edward with my truck and I never became – I realise now – _dependent_ on him. That I was still working at my crappy job with my perverted boss and fantasizing about stars on my ceiling because the real ones never seemed to shine so brightly for me.

But I know, deep down, that I'm a liar.

Life without Edward's influence would be too dark to return to.

_He is the shine._

Then the pretty woman with the china doll face lays her hand atop of mine – her warmth encroaching upon my cold, and she says, "I wanted to thank you."

My eyes snap open, and then peer up at hers in weariness and disbelief. I don't speak – my thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations.

Interpreting my look, she gives me a soft smile, and clarifies. "Thank you for bringing my son home."

Surprised, a sting works its way up into the back of my eyes. I shake my head. "He found it on his own," I whisper back.

~#~

Dark falls soon after Esme departs and I resign myself to the bed once more. This time, I lay back, but the ceiling is too blank, so I curl up on my side so I'm facing the window instead. The stars wink back at me and I sigh; the only sound to permeate the otherwise quiet room. There is no sound of traffic, or of people drunkenly arguing in the streets. It is simply, _peace_.

I shut my eyes, but I don't sleep. All I can do is let my mind wander over the technicalities of the day. I hadn't properly absorbed Alice's words when Esme came a'knocking on my door earlier. I hadn't realised, but the forgiveness she'd bestowed upon me had been something I'd been wanting. It felt like a great weight has been lifted off my chest, like I'd suddenly resurfaced against the oppressive push and pull of water.

She'd told me there had been nothing to forgive, yet she'd given it to me anyway.

Sighing once more, I roll onto my back and pull the duvet up to my nose. The room is warm – unlike my own used to be at my flat – but the cover is comforting. Alice had told me Edward had been missing, missing some time before I had run into him – _literally_ – with my car. He'd been away for _months_, and he'd shown no signs of returning.

So Esme had thanked me for bringing her son home, even though he was broken. And seeing the crystal clear relief and gratitude spread across her features, showing me plainly how much she loved her son, and what it meant for her to have him within reach again. She could talk to him, hug him, simply _be_ with him now.

Even though he didn't know her, it seemed like a small price to pay.

All of that, and I couldn't bring myself to regret his being here again.

Even if the only reason he allowed himself to be returned was _because_ he was broken.

I try to shake the thought away, but it refuses to truly dissipate. Instead it seizes my stomach with harsh, unrelenting fingers and squeezes until I feel like I'm going to be sick. Alice had said as much to me. He didn't _want_ to be here, because he couldn't be _himself_ here.

Now he's lost his self – he's lost his will.

Frustration builds up higher and higher, like jenga blocks teetering precariously, until it seeps out and tumbles down with loud crashes like the topple of the wooden tower. Now we are single pieces lost among the mass and we don't know what to do anymore.

I pull the duvet fully over my face in defeat.

And by some small miracle, my mind shuts off long enough for the eventual inevitability of sleep.

~#~

Sometime later, when the room is still painted in darkness, I'm startled awake by the sound of soft footsteps.

It's strange I should sleep so lightly when I felt – still _feel_ – so tired. Or maybe it's just because I'm so in tune to this particular person now, that my body can't help but respond to its friends call.

"Hey," he whispers, once he reaches the side of the bed.

"Hi," I croak back tiredly. And I wordlessly shift over in the bed, lifting back the duvet in invitation. It's too dark to see his expression, but I feel as he quickly takes up the offer when his body slides in next to mine. His is warm, and long and strong, and just the general opposite of me. He rolls over to face me, and we lie on our sides in the dark. We can't see, but knowing the other is there is enough.

"Where have you been all day?" I inquire quietly, letting my hand find his between our bodies.

He slips his hand into mine and gives a gentle squeeze. "I was just outside – walking around. I thought you might need some space."

I shake my head, smiling a little sadly in the dark. I quote the words he'd once said to me back to him – and mean them. "I like to have you near." I bring our joined hands from under the quilt and rest them on my cheek. "I think I always will."

He sighs deeply, and there's something significant in it – like a sense of relief floating from his self into mine. It's _elevating_. It's almost _palpable_. Everything in my mind seems to quieten down, as if its finally content with something, and I know it's him.

_He is the shine._

He makes things okay again.

He makes _me_ okay.

"I'm counting on it," he whispers quietly. Then he closes the small gap between us until his forehead rests on mine, and I have to close my eyes before they can cry.

Because _this_ is peace.

* * *

**A/N:**

The end.

For real this time.

...

...

Nah, I'm yanking your chain again. This is most definitely noooooooooot the end. That was mean. Sorry. ;)

"My thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations." Is a quote from **The Fault in Our Stars** by _John Green_. And if you haven't read it yet, why the _heck_ not?

Thanks for reading! I hope it was worth the wait. More ExB stuff to come next chapter. They need to talk and, um, do things...

Until next time!


	39. 38: Pain is catching

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . I feel not good and pain is catching. **

_**"Sometimes she'd fall asleep . . . and he'd continue on for hours like he was playing the soundtrack to her dreams."**_

That night, I'm startled awake many times, though there is no apparent physical stimulus I'm aware of which presents the cause for my restlessness. I reside on the border between sleep and consciousness, and just when I feel myself begin to drift a little deeper, a little sweeter, reality yanks me back like a night fiend yanking on the back of my hood to harass me. There's that shot of pure _panic_ that, even though you expect it, seizes you tightly each time – like when you run the water too hot and you know the sting's coming but you're powerless to do anything but wait for it to impinge pain upon your sizzling nerves.

By the fifth time this happens I'm pulled awake by my own gasping, my hand on my throat as if it will assist with the aid of air. My skin is damp with sweat yet I shiver like I feel the cold. My mouth floods with saliva, and I know I'm going to be sick.

Jumping from the bed, I dash into the en suite, bumping into several things on the way there. But quietness is not on my list of priorities right now. I think of Esme briefly and decide that she wouldn't like the redecoration that would befall her carpet if I took the time to be _quiet_.

I get there just in time, emptying the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl. I heave and gag and by the time I think I'm empty, my throat feels raw and my stomach turns in on over itself like it's _that_ time of the month. I flush the toilet quickly but leave the lid open – just in case. And then I curl into a ball on the cold floor, groaning and too hot and too cold. When I swallow, all I taste is bitter and bile, and then I'm back to heaving once again.

~#~

After the eighth time of flushing my sickness away, I lower myself onto the floor once more; arms shaking from exhaustion and strain. I lean heavily against the bath behind me, dropping my head between my pulled up knees. Bits of hair that have fallen out of my ponytail stick to my sweaty face but I don't have the energy to push them away. I haven't gotten ill like this in forever. I always picked up the silly cold's and head flu's in the winter, but not _this_ kind, not since I was a child.

"Well, you know what they say," I mutter to myself, aware that I might be _slightly_ delusional. "When a peasant, do as the peasants do."

"I was under the impression you were the princess."

A slow smile curls up the corner of my mouth, and I momentarily feel a dissipation from the ache. "I demoted myself for a better cause."

"Which is?"

I feel my cheeks warm slightly. "The ability to fraternize with my huntsman."

I can hear the grin in his voice when he says, "Oh is _that_ what we're doing."

I snort weakly into my knees before pulling my heavy head up and fixing him with my stare. I have to blink a few times against the lighting. My vision is blurred slightly, but I can make out Edward as he leans against the doorjamb. "Like you didn't already know." I smile, losing the battle with my lids as they shut on their own accord.

I feel his touch on my face a moment later, his palm is cool against my feverish skin. "Bella?" he asks, voice worried. I force my eyes open once more; he looms right in front of me now. "What's wrong? I didn't know you were – Jesus!" He cups my face in his hands, stroking my waxy cheeks with his thumbs.

"Sick," I say, weakly nodding to the toilet with a grimace. "A few times."

He runs his thumbs gently over the skin under my eyes. "How many is a _few_ times?"

I swallow; my throat dry. "Eight, I think."

He utters a curse under his breath, and before I can blink he's sliding one arm under my legs and the other around my back, pulling me gently onto his lap. "Oh, sweetheart," he says, sadness leaking into his voice. He presses his lips to my damp forehead and I close my eyes, sighing, burrowing further into his embrace – like a _mole_.

"You'll get sick, too," I breathe quietly, but make no move to extract myself from his embrace. Maybe it's selfish, but I want his comfort. Shamelessly, I bury my face into his neck and inhale – he smells like detergent and _apples_, always apples. My fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt. And for the first time in hours I feel content – _comfortable_.

"That doesn't matter," he quickly dispels, rising with me in his arms. He pivots and takes slow, measured steps towards the bedroom again. My fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, and I breathe a little shallower, my stomach tossing somersaults.

He pauses. "Okay?" he asks quietly, doing his utmost best to be stationary. I have to give him credit; no-one can be still like Edward.

After a minute, I nod my head. "Okay," I whisper back, and this time he more shuffles than walks; the movement so barely-there that it doesn't bother me.

When he goes to deposit me on the bed, I cling to him. "No," I mumble into his neck, lifting my arms to wrap around him; my fingers sliding up into his soft hair. It occurs to me then that I might be delusional and _uncommonly_ _forward_. I feel drunk as well as having the effects of having a _hangover_.

"No?"

I shake my head and keep my hold on him. I think he'll tell me if it starts to bother him, so I don't worry.

"Alright…"

With that he manoeuvres both of us onto the bed. He looks at the window before slowly lying flat on his back, and bringing me with him. My head falls onto the pillow next to his neck, while my body completely overlays his – like a human, heated blanket.

"How long were you in there for?" He lifts a hand, smoothing his fingertips across my brow; stroking my temples.

I sigh and half smile. My nose is touching his neck, and when he speaks it sends vibrations under my skin. "Don't know," I mumble back tiredly. "A few hours maybe. I couldn't sleep."

He touches my forehead. "You should have woken me," he tells me quietly, his voice low with something akin to sorrow afflicting his tone.

"To have you watch me spew up my guts a billion times?" I wrinkle my nose against his skin. "You were better off asleep." I snuggle closer to him. "Trust me."

He sighs and kisses my forehead again; lets his lips rest there. "I just want to look after you."

Something tingles up my spine, ensnaring my stomach before finding in its way up to my heart. It's not sickness that's grasped me this time, but something else.

Inside, I am _warm_.

Inside, I am _wanted_.

I am _lo_ –

"Sleep, baby," he whispers soothingly against my skin, unknowingly cutting off my uncompleted thought. I'm too tired to hold onto anything though, so I just let it go. But I imagine my skin perspires because my heart is _glowing_. With heat. With _everything_. "I'll take care of you now."

~#~

When I next blink my eyes open, it is much lighter. I immediately squeeze them closed again, before slowly squinting until they're fully open once more. It's daytime but it's not really _light_. The room seems shrouded in an overcast atmosphere; the sound of rain splattering against the windows.

I lick my dry lips and attempt to clear my throat. I feel sore and achy all over, and I groan unwittingly, burying my face into the pillow next to me.

_I hate being sick._

"Hey." A gentle hand in my hair; fingers smoothing over my scalp. "Are you awake for real now?"

I lift my head at the sound of the voice and spy Edward leaning against the headboard, watching me. I attempt a smile, but it probably comes out looking more like a grimace. "What d'you mean?" I croak out, closing my eyes again, because his fingers in my hair feel wonderful; soothing against the dull throb in my head. "For real?"

"You've been talking in your sleep." His hand finds my forehead. "I think your fever made you delirious." Worry coats his tone and this time I do smile, because he gives me _worth_. Something warm coils around my insides again, and I sigh softly.

"You know I talk in my sleep."

"Yes, but this was _more_." He pauses, and his fingers stop sliding in my hair. I pout and give a little whine, and push my head into his hand to _keep going. _He obliges with a quiet chuckle. "Demanding little thing," he teases.

I grin despite how I feel. "When sick, reap the benefits of being sick."

"And that includes head massages?"

I sigh blissfully when he lightly scratches his fingernails over my scalp. "Well, if you _will_ insist."

He laughs quietly, but doesn't stop his motions.

Silence ensues for some time then. The only sounds being the gentle _pit pat_ of rain on glass and the quiet sound of our breathing. But then my heart thunders violently in my chest and my eyes shoot open. I flip over onto my back, gasping as my stomach clenches and unclenches painfully. I meet Edward's eyes for a split second before jumping up and rushing to the bathroom again. I wobble unsteadily for a minute as a fit of head rush overtakes me.

But Edward's there – of course he is – and he's lifting me up and getting me to the bathroom just in time for me to –

– throw my guts up.

I think I must throw up the lining of my stomach – just bile because there absolutely cannot be any food left in me after last time. Edward, God bless him, stays beside me, holding my hair away and rubbing my back in small, soft circles. He utters gentle words that I can't make out because my gagging is too loud, but the tone is comforting enough.

Finally, I pull back long enough to pull the lid down and flush, before pressing my sweaty forehead against the porcelain. "You shouldn't have seen that," I breathe weakly.

He scoffs, and I feel him encircle me, picking me up and holding me in his arms. He leans back against the bathroom wall and tucks his legs under him, letting me rest in the warmth of his lap. I press my flushed cheek into his chest and hear and feel his heart beating under my ear. It's _thundering_.

"What's wrong?" I ask, voice muffled and eyes closing. "You heart is beating so fast."

His laugh is hollow in its disbelief. "You're asking _me_ what's wrong?" But it's rhetorical so I don't answer. He sighs, holding me tighter. "I guess it's just because you've been hurting more in these past few weeks than I ever saw you hurt in our time together." He pauses and my throat tightens; forms a knot.

I clinch his shirt in my hands. "We can't be strong all the time."

"No," he utters, so quietly, his lips brushing the top of my hair. "But we can share it."

And then he rises, slowly, cautiously. And sensing his stare, I lift my head to look up at him; lean it heavily on his shoulder. His eyes drift over my face like a physical caress, and his voice is soft as silk when he speaks, though his tone is certain and sure.

"You were strong for me. And now I'll be strong for you."

~#~

I awake between flashes of heat and fits of cold. My skin burns but my insides freeze. Sometimes I'm touched and sometimes it's too much – too clammy.

I groan.

I moan.

But I don't throw up again.

_I hate being sick._

~#~

I come round sometime later. The room is bathed in darkness; the curtains have been drawn, and the sound of rain on glass is still present. With my eyes closed I try to let the lull deposit me back into some semblance of normal; where my pores don't consistently sweat and I don't shiver like it's below freezing.

As I become more aware of my own being, I'm conscious of cool damp instead of sticky heat being impressed upon skin. The feeling is pleasant, like flames being doused. And I decide that it's much, _much_ nicer waking up than it was falling asleep.

I sigh and yawn, and my eyes flutter open even though I feel like I could sleep for a hundred more years. Letting my eyes adjust to the dark, I vaguely make out a shadowy shape lying next to me. Upon closer inspection, I see that it's Edward.

He's sleeping.

I can't quell the smile that blooms outwardly, pulling up the corners of my lips. His hair is spread out like a messy mane on the pillow beneath him, and his long lashes are black dustings of ash touching his cheeks. His mouth his partly open, his breath coming out softly through his lips. He would be the perfect picture of peace and serenity, if only the furrow between his eyebrows weren't present.

I lift my arm from the duvet; shaky and pale in the dark. Gently, I smooth my fingertips over his brow and watch in wonder as the lines disappear.

"Ah, you're up."

I jolt slightly, snatching my hand away from Edward as if I'd been burned. My eyes dart to the doorway, only to see Esme hovering in the threshold. A gentle smile resides on her lips and she holds something in her hands – a bowl, my eyes clarify once she ventures closer.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, setting the bowl down gently on the table next to the bed. I struggle to sit up a little but she places a hand on my shoulder to stay my uprising. I slowly lower myself back down; sinking into the plush mattress with an irrepressible sigh that seems to seep out of my fatigued joints.

"Not so bad," I croak out a moment later.

She places her palm on my forehead – and I'm struck with a sense of childhood, when Renee used to do the same – and it winds me for a minute. I suddenly realise I miss her, I miss Charlie. And I have the abrupt urge to call them; listen to Renee's mile-a-minute chatter and Charlie's awkward, _I love you, Bells._

"Your temperature has come down a bit," Esme says, interrupting my reverie. "I think your fever may have broken." I blink back the sting in my eyes as she removes her hand, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Fever?"

She laughs quietly, so slight the bed doesn't even shake. "You've really been out of it." She smiles and then her eyes flicker to the side of me, and I watch as they soften infinitesimally. I let my line of sight follow hers. Edward.

"He hasn't left your side once," she reveals gently. I keep my eyes on his face and feel my heart tug. "You were too hot. He was bent on cooling you down." My eyes flicker to hers in confusion, and she looks at me and nods towards his hand. My eyes follow his arm outside the blanket, and I'm startled to see a flannel in his hand, even more surprised to find it resting on the pillow near my head. Lifting my hand, I touch my forehead – still cool – and then the cloth in his hand – still damp.

"He cares for you," Esme says softly.

The lump in my throat grows tighter. I find I can't form words.

"It reminded me of how he was before, seeing him take care of you like that." At her wistful tone, I bring my eyes to her in the dark. She looks at Edward; lost in a memory. "When they were younger, he used to help me tend to Alice when she was sick." She smiles, not big or brilliant or bright, but so sincere in its quality, and not quantity. "The same for Emmett, though he liked to pretend he didn't want it, he loved being looked after." Her lips lift into a chuckle, and my own smile rises to the surface of my lips. I imagine a little Edward with hair too big for his body, a toy stethoscope around his neck and concern in his expressive green eyes.

"He was such a good boy," she says so quietly it's almost a whisper.

It's the past tense she uses that tears at me. And it's my fault she uses it in the first place. _If only I hadn't hit him with my truck, if only he hadn't lost his memory . . . _

If, if, _if_.

"He still is," I whisper back, finding Edward's hand blindly in the near dark. "He's one of the best people I know."

Esme shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance and looks at me with kind eyes.

"I'm sorry I made you forget that." I have to look away from her; the guilt building up is too much. All I can envisage is the same situation, only flipped. What If I were the one who had been hurt? What if I were the one who didn't remember who I used to love? Who I used to call _mom_ or _dad_?

What if I was Edward, and Esme was Renee, or Charlie?

"Bella," she says softly, and there's something in her tone which prompts me to lift my eyes to hers once again. "I'm not blaming you." She shakes her head. "This isn't your doing."

I have to close my eyes momentarily because the room starts to spin. Alice's words come back to me, and appear in my mind like crystal smoke – _he'd been unhappy for a long time._

"Edward hadn't been himself for years. The only time I ever saw him smile – truly – was when he was at his piano bench." Her smile is faint and sombre, and not how one should smile when reminiscing about their child. "Sometimes he'd simply stand in the kitchen while I made dinner, or sit in the garden with Emmett – I'd never seen his brother be as quiet and still as he did in those moments, nor have I ever since." A piece of hair falls over her eyes as she stares down at the bed, and she doesn't push it away. "And always so careful of his little sister. Often she'd sit by him when he was playing. Sometimes she'd fall asleep . . . and he'd continue on for hours like he was playing the soundtrack to her dreams."

Water wells in my eyes as I run my fingertips gently over his hand. I imagine the person he used to be – the person he still is – and all the ways he absorbed his family's goodness and _love_ before he left them. He knew he was going, he had planned it. And he wanted the imprint of his family fresh in his mind before he had to say goodbye.

_I love you_, his actions said. _And_ _I'll be here with you even when I'm gone._

_Remember when we used to make a mess in here, mom._

_Remember that I'll be in the quiet hours when you're sick of the loud, Emmett._

_Remember this song when you need a friend, Alice._

_Remember __**me**__._

* * *

**A/N:**

Going to cry for a thousand years, cya.

But seriously, legit cried real tears during the end of this chapter._  
_

We're airing out the past now, it's not gonna get too depressive, but you know the saying; it's gotta get worse before it gets better.

Favourite part/line?

Until next time. :)


	40. 39: Revelations

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . you think you're . . .  
**

After Esme leaves – not before bidding me to try the soup, and telling me she'd check back later – I stay awake, my muddy gaze fixed close on the man next to me. I watch the rise and fall of his chest; the occasional flickering of his eyelids with something like quiet contemplation. His very presence sets me at ease.

Every day it seems as if I find more out about his past, more about the life he doesn't remember. And the more I learn the more I'm forced to conceive that it might be better if he never _did_. But these thoughts are quickly drowned out by masses of swarming guilt and bouts of conscience. His family tell me they want him back – not so much with their words, but with every other little nuance.

His past tears at me as if it had been my own. Initially there had been surprise. Prejudices lead me to believe the other half had it all, and then some. But they don't – not really. _Edward_ is a case in point.

_My Mole._

I am sorry and filled _with_ sorrow. Because when he remembers . . .

_When he remembers._

I swallow thickly, and bring my forehead near his. I close my eyes; reach my fingers up to caress his hair.

"Don't run again," I whisper into the din. "Your family need you." I press my lips together and then inhale . . . and on the exhale, shakily admit;

"And I . . . I need you, too."

~#~

"Hey," I whisper, when Edward starts stirring some time later.

He sighs deeply before slowly blinking his eyes open. He stares up at the ceiling a moment in confusion, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes sleepily. I giggle next to him because he's _adorable_.

He's _Mole_.

He head turns quickly at the sound of my amusement, and his eyes widen, and he smiles when he sees me watching him. I'm lying on my side, facing him, my cheek pressed against the world's most luxurious pillow. My arm is stretched across the small distance between us, so my hand still resides in his hair.

"How are you feeling?" Is his greeting, his voice husky and especially deep from lack of use. I carry on pushing my fingers through his hair, and his own hand finds my forehead.

"Better," I reply, his concern warming my insides. "I feel much better." His hand moves to cup my cheek – seemingly satisfied with the temperature of my forehead – and his eyes find mine.

"I was worried about you," he says softly, the hue of his eyes intense yet mellow at the same time. The way he looks at me turns my insides to jelly, and if I had been butter, I most _definitely_ would have melted by now.

I creep closer, as always, and his hair is like silk as it slips through my fingertips. "Thank you for taking care of me," I express in a whisper, feeling heat flush up my chest and neck and onto my cheeks, because my insides can't contain the feelings he evokes, and so spread like roses onto my skin. I recall Esme's words and the smile on her face when she told me how he hadn't left my side – _not once._

He says nothing, simply slips his arm around my waist to bring me closer. "You would have done the same for me," he utters quietly, and I can't deny it. He presses a slow kiss on my flushed cheek before drawing back slightly to look into my eyes.

"Still," I start, flustered under his look. "That couldn't have been fun for you."

He cracks a smile, rolling his eyes and finally relieving me from his spell-binding stare. "The doctor said you had a nasty 48 hour bug."

My eyebrows lift in surprise. "So I've been asleep for _two days_?" I ask, incredulous, but before he can respond continue, even more incredulously, "Wait, _doctor_?"

He chuckles at my confusion prompting me to pout at him in response. "You're so cute when you're out of the loop," he coos teasingly.

Now it's my turn to roll _my_ eyes.

He laughs outright, and the sound is so carefree and just . . . _happy_, that I can't help but giggling along with him. I press my forehead against the warm skin of his neck and briefly allow myself a moment to indulge in this small slice of heaven; of the _before_ and not the _after_, of the present instead of the past.

We quieten down after a little while, and Edward starts running his hands through my hair; root to where it ends, halfway down my back. "Yeah, you've been asleep for the majority of the time," he says, referring back to my previous question. "And sleep _talking_." I blush against his neck. "The doctor said you were delirious, I had to set him straight."

I snort despite myself. "Gee," I utter dryly, "just go around informing the whole world I babble nonsense – not only in my _waking_ life, but in my _unconscious_ one too. _Thanks_." I squeeze his side gently to show I'm joking.

He squeezes me back and brushes his lips against the top of my head. "Anything for you."

Not for the first time, my heart warms.

"And I requested a doctor for you as soon as I could."

"You _requested_?" I ask, baffled.

He hums. "Best of the best they have here, apparently."

I groan.

"What?" he asks, immediately on edge. "Are you going to be sick again?" He attempts to pull me back a little so he can see me, but I just burrow deeper.

"No," I huff against him, and he ceases his movements.

"Then what?" he asks, sounding visibly relieved as he sinks back into the cushions.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I just wish you hadn't gone to all that fuss for me."

After a moment, he sighs, and this time succeeds in pulling me back so he can see me. I avoid his stare as his eyes seek mine out, but then he hooks a finger underneath my chin so his searching gaze captures my sporadic one. And I can't look away.

His eyes swerve and traverse down directions I can't follow in, as he looks at me. He touches my cheek and runs his thumb underneath the skin of my eye, all the while looking like he's struggling with some inner entity I'm not privy to.

I blink back at him, my eyes wide – something aching inside of my skin.

Eventually, he says, "Why not?" very, very softly, like he's afraid to break some hidden fragility.

"I – " I break off, suddenly unsure of what to say. "I don't know," I struggle, darting my eyes away from his briefly before bringing them back. Something in Edward makes me want to say all the things I never have – like I'm a bottle of champagne finally released of its cork, like I can finally spill over.

I was so used to being quiet, before.

And until Edward, I never realised how much there was I wanted to say.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek. _Why not?_

"I guess because no one ever did before," I utter, the words falling from my lips as new to him as they are to me. "I was fine being left . . . alone." I attempt a smile, but it's painful as it tries to raise the corners of my lips. So I let it fall.

"Fine," he whispers, indulging in a false smile too. "I thought I was fine, as well."

My eyes widen.

"You did?" I ask, my voice as quiet as his. "_Before_?"

His own eyes mirror mine before he squeezes them tightly shut. I watch anxiously as he rolls from his side and onto his back. He grips his hair, and then fists his hand over his t-shirt.

Over his heart.

"Edward?" I whisper tentatively, moving into a sitting position. I lean over him and hesitate before letting my hand rest over his. He interlocks our fingers together tightly, and I can feel the distinct rhythm of his heartbeat under our palms. "Do you – " I start, but my voice breaks. "Do you remember?"

I wait with baited breath for a moment before he slowly shakes his head, eyes still closed. I exhale shakily, wondering if I feel better or worse for knowing – wondering if it's a mix of both.

"I don't remember anything specific – everything is always blurry," he whispers. "But I can remember how I _felt_." He swallows. "Before. A moment or at many moments _before_."

A sting starts to rise in the back of my eyes. I watch as he breathes deeply, quickly, and how his face distorts as if in pain. "It hurts?" I ask, my voice wavering.

He exhales roughly, as if breathing is an effort he'd rather not make. At length he re-opens his eyes; the rims are red and the white is bloodshot, and the green has never been more prominent in what it's trying to say.

_Help me._

_I'm drowning._

I let my hand find his face, and stroke his cheek like I can stroke away the pain and soothe it into an everlasting sleep. Empathy is like a glass shard stuck in my throat, slicing all the way down before piercing my heart and leaving me to bleed out onto the floor. A tear rolls down my cheek as one seeps from his eye and onto the pillow.

He doesn't know why he's crying.

I press my forehead against his – a sign of comfort we've adopted – and tell him, "It's going to be okay." And I don't know why I do it, but suddenly I'm kissing him.

I think I want to distract him from his inner demons that threaten to rise to the surface; to push them back down for a little while longer. So we can laugh again, throw flour on each other and watch the stars on my ceiling, and in the meadow.

It's not a, _fine_.

It's a, _we're going to be okay._

He breathes out shakily at first, but meets me kiss for kiss. Gradually, his tense body relaxes into the mattress below, and his mind stops flashing and feeling. He wraps his arms around me, and I rest my hands in his hair.

This is something more than the hesitant, barely-there kiss in the bedroom before. This is _more_.

This is _need_.

I pull back slowly, my heart pounding and my breath coming out in shaky, quiet pants – eyes closed; a strange electric energy burning the skin on my lips. And I hope he doesn't ask me _why_ because I _don't know._

When I open my eyes, he's looking up at me with a gaze that's never seemed more vulnerable or earnest; his lips red and his cheeks flushed. My breath hitches in a strange way, and I imagine our hearts beat in sync.

"Bella," he whispers breathlessly; his eyes a strange mixture of wildness and peace. He hugs me close, close, _close, _like he can't feel enough even though I'm lying on top of him. There's a desperation in him I've never seen or felt before when he reaches a hand up to the back of my neck and guides my face closer to his, until our mouths are as near as they were just a moment ago. Like he has some secret to say that is too delicate for even the air around us to know.

He whispers, desperately, "I think I'm in love with you."

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:**

:O!

Yeah, he said it.**  
**

Are you squeeing?

I know I am. ;)

I know it's not long, but I just wanted to give you guys something before Christmas. And hopefully, the content will make up for the length. ;)**  
**

Merry Christmas! I hope you all have a great one. Have fun tomorrow! And make sure you eat your own body weight in food, 'tis the season, after all. ;) And if I don't update before 2013, well, happy new year! Thanks so much for reading/reviewing/favouriting/subscribing/etc. – Just for all your support throughout the year, thanks a lot.

Love,  
~C xo


	41. 40: Ginger Lovers

**A/N:**

Happy 2013! You guys made – and broke – any resolutions yet? ;) Mine is to get this story finished this year – let's see if we can make it happen!

See you at the bottom. :)

(p.s. if there are any grammatical/spelling mistakes it's 'cuz I was writing this at midnight and I'm very sleepy, so you'll have to forgive them for now until I go over it properly tomorrow. Thanks chica's!)

* * *

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . we're in love . . . and ginger. **

I can do nothing for many moments expect _gape_ at him.

I don't even worry about how unattractive that must look from where he lies below me – with prime viewing access to the entirety of my inner mouth – I'm that stunned. I don't speak, don't move or bite the inside of my cheek in anxiety. I don't even seem to _breathe_, but I know that my lungs pull in and push out air, even if I'm unaware of it.

Because my heart is _racing_ with all the blood pumping around my body, with the oxygen being supplied by my lungs.

_I think I'm in love with you._

_I think I'm in love with you . . . _

I.

Think.

I'm.

In.

Love.

With.

You.

The words together are unfathomable; unthinkable, and strange and jilted and stifled. When they fell from his lips they sounded smooth, rolling over me like water over glass. But in my head they sound too rough and untrue – and foreign.

I tremble. I want to hear him say it again.

I want to know they're not just some sad apparition my lonely heart has made up.

"Again," I beseech him in a whisper, my hands fisting in his hair. "Tell me again."

His eyes flicker in the din of all things unknown and untold, flicker with the realisation of finally saying something he knows and that might just be _true_ for the first time since the accident. They go up and down, up and down, slowly like the gentle rise and fall of hills in some high up place. Like the greenness of those in _The Sound of Music_

He whispers, "I love you."

My breath stalls in my chest again, and I just stare at him in the rising light in disbelief and awe – maybe even a drop of hope.

The only people who have ever loved me are my parents, and vice versa. But I felt it was more of an obligation that anything else. All parents love their kids, right? They don't make the choice, they just _do_. It's something different when someone _chooses_ to love you. They make a conscious choice, a decision. They _like_ you, then they _love_ you.

Internally, I struggle. I wonder what could warrant such emotion for me.

He must see something in my eyes, because he rises slowly into a sitting position, taking me with him. The desperation previously apparent in him has disappeared, only to be replaced with something else – something holding more intensity than _desperation_.

_Love_, I think.

"I'm in love with you," he tells me, seeming to speak to my very soul, and heart, rather than my mere physical form. It's too much, it's not enough. I want to hear the words on a loop forever and I want them shunned from existence because I don't understand _why_ yet I want it anyhow.

I close my eyes against the moment.

"Why?" I ask in a whisper, the word leaving my tongue before I can stem it. My heart is beating much too fast in my chest and my stomach is turning over in somersaults – tossing around butterflies. Like the drop of the very high rollercoaster, like when you're called on in class, like when somebody tells you something crazy_, like they love you._

I feel his hands on my cheeks suddenly, cupping my face softly between his palms like a photographer framing the perfect shot. His flash burns so, so brightly.

I feel his lips flutter over my face is sweet, little touches; over my cheeks, across the bridge of my nose, brushing my forehead and chin. I want to cry and I want him to carry on showing me and showering me in his affection. I lift my hands to grasp onto his tightly as he continues his light caresses – something to ground me so I don't float away.

He kisses my lips lightly before dropping his head into my neck and breathing in deeply, and then on his shaky exhale expels in a whisper, "You're so easy to love."

I tuck my face into his neck and inhale deeply; breathing in his apple cider scent as a shaky smile floats to my lips.

Disbelieving _belief_.

Because this is _Edward_, and I _know_ him even if he doesn't know himself. I know that he has an unusual affection for cereal and curry, that he likes watching the stars on my bedroom ceiling almost as much as he likes watching the real ones. I know his smiles and eyes and how he uses them to show me when he's happy, and when he's not. The way he's a bed hogger but a blanket sharer and that he absolutely cannot _bear_ shower's but loves baths because he says _"if I want to get rained on I'll just go outside when it's pouring."_

How is eyes flicker depending on the time of day, or with emotion or mood. The fact that he finds it incredibly hard to say the word "banoffee" but loves banoffee pie, and how he adores Marmite. How he always helps me in anyway he can and likes engaging in flour fights and making cakes and walking in the twilight._  
_

When he kisses my forehead when he thinks I'm sleeping.

And when he hums tunes and notes to music that's not forgotten, just buried down deep somewhere inside of him.

How he _never_, ever lies.

Because I know Edward, I have to believe him.

So I_ do _– however mad it seems to me, because it's obviously not to him.

_I believe him._

I let myself be loved.

And I _revel_ in it.

I don't know how long we sit like that for; furled up in each tightly, fitting each other's crooks and cranny's, like we were made to slot into each other's cold places to warm them – the nook of a neck, or an elbow, hips and waists and fingers and lips.

After a while, Edward lifts his head from my neck; rising with the morning sun, unusually bright and shining in the usual dismal wet. His fingers tickle my cheek when he brushes wisps away from my face, and I smile at him, a real, earnest, full of teeth, eyes-crinkling-at-the-corners sort of smile. Because I can't help it and because I _don't want_ to.

He pokes at the corner of my lip. "What are _you_ smiling about?" he asks teasingly, but his smile matches my own.

I bite my bottom lip, but it does nothing to stem the uncontrollable grin on my face. The sun suddenly hits the glass to the side of us, and I feel the warmth on my face the precise moment I see it light up the side of Edward's; his hair very, _very_ red in the sun.

I giggle and point at his mass of hair – tangled and wild and oh-so perfect. "You're ginger."

He smiles wider and mimics my movement; moving his hand from my face to swirl a finger around an errant tendril. He brings the lock up for us to inspect. And it's red, too.

"So are you," he sniggers.

I look at him, grinning stupidly. I feel free and liberated and just . . . _happy_. "Our kids would have very, _very _red hair."

"The _ultimate_ ginger," he laughs.

I laugh with him, enjoying the sound of _his_ laugh and the way the vibrations from his chest ressonates in my own – inside and out. "We just quoted _Doctor Who_," I say, feeling silly and high.

"I know," he says, and his eyes crinkle with his grin. "I _love_ that we can geek speak together." Cupping my cheeks in both hands again, he says softly, "I love _you_."

My heart thrums in my chest. My smile is so wide I'm sure is could split my face in two. "Edward."

"Yeah?"

"You're silly."

He kisses my nose. "Silly for _you_."

I laugh lightly, and then take a breath and open my eyes wide. I cup his face like he does mine because there's something bubbling in my stomach, moving is way up my throat and then I can feel it on the _very tip_ of my tongue. It feels important, I _know_ it is. There's something I have to say.

And then I just tell him.

Because I think I'd been telling it myself for a long time already.

"I think I love you, too."

* * *

**A/N:**

I know it's only short, but I was actually struggling with this chapter. Half-way through writing this I was really missing the lightness of previous chapter's, so I tried to incorporate some here. I never intended for it to get very angsty, so I hope this little bit of light-heartedness made up for it!

FYI, those quotes are really from _Doctor Who_. The other thing I'm fanatical about. It's kind of fantastic. :)

And Edward's "You're so easy to love" quote always, _always_ reminds me of the song 'Loving You is Easy' by The Charlatans. Have'a listen if you feel like it. :P

And thanks, as always, for reading and reviewing. You guys are my stars. xo

(p.s. my mum actually has that issue with the word "banoffee", the only difference is that she thinks the combination of toffee and banana is, to quote, "just wrong").

(p.p.s. I guess you just can't please some people...)

(p.p.p.s. I hope _you_ lot were pleased with this chapter...)

(p.p.p.p.s. Marmite is gross and Edwardo is crazy).

(p.p.p.p.p.s. _Curry_ and _cereal_ on the other hand...)


	42. 41: Passing forever

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . time passes and we're spending it like forever.  
**

His face freezes even before the last letter has left my tongue. His body grows hard beneath me. I imagine he's flesh turned to stone and if I make any attempt to move, I might break him.

I stay very, very still.

My eyes flicker anxiously between his, and after five minutes passes I find I can't stand the charged silence anymore. After a declaration like that the worst reception that you can get is _silence_.

"Edward?" I inquire worriedly, and my voice breaks. I lift my hand to his cheek and tenderly run my thumb over his cheekbone. "Please . . ."

He livens at my touch; letting out a shuddering sigh and leaning into my palm. My heart jumps in my chest and seems to start to beating easily again. _We're okay.  
_  
"You're not just saying that, are you?" He searches my eyes with is, trying to root out a lie he won't find. "Just because you feel you have to say it back?" His hands tighten on my waist, and my heart breaks a little because I wonder how he can_not_see it. But, I rationalise, I'd only just realised it myself.

I shake my head slowly in answer, keeping my eyes locked on his.

"I," I whisper, leaning close to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, "love," I lean down and kiss the tip of his nose, getting up-close and personal with his smiling, shining eyes, "_you_." I finish, bypassing his waiting lips to duck my head into his chest. I rest a palm on one of his pectorals and then press a kiss to heart.

He lets out a little gasp-sigh, lifting a hand to stroke my hair. My lips curl up into a small smile as I turn my head and let my ear rest against his chest. I listen to his heart and let it lull me, like a lost-but-found lullaby. I keep my eyes open and don't let them fall closed – though I could easily – because for once, my reality is sweeter than my dreams.

"You really mean it?" he asks, oh-so quietly; his voice but a rumble in his chest.

I slither my arms around his waist and squeeze him _tight, _his body warm and stable in my arms. Tipping my head upwards, I let my eyes meet his. He stares down at me with teeming eyes – full to the brim and spilling over with hope, with _everything_.

I say, softly, "I never say anything I don't mean."

And then, "I _promise_."

He simply looks at me for an immeasurable amount of time; I don't mind, I look back. It's as if I can see the blocks of his soul settling as I stare into the lush-greenness of his eyes. Like things righting themselves where previously they'd been wronged; jigsaw pieces moving from mismatched to matched, Jenga blocks being built back up after a reckless hand knocked them down, a key gliding its way effortlessly into a before-broken lock, and fingertips aligning even though it's dark because they have _faith_ to find what they'd been missing.

What they'd been _wanting_.

Because they were lonely.

Because they weren't supposed to be.

He crushes me to him in an instant, and in the close space I think he understands.

_We're going to be okay now._

~#~

Weeks pass and my bruises fade. The skies grow lighter with each passing day; the slow emerging of Spring, and with the opening and blooming of brand new things, Edward and I revel in our newfound . . . _relationship_.

It brings a smile to my lips to think of the word – _relationship_. Giddiness is not something I'm used to, and should be reserved for high school girls with first crushes and first kisses, first dates and first dances. But I was never one of those girls, so all of a sudden I'm being thrust into a bunch of firsts at the same time, but instead of being scared of it, I throw caution to the wind and just let the chips fall where they may.

They fall pretty pleasantly, in case you were wondering.

I think it helps that Edward is just as clueless as I am – well, seems it at least, seeing as he can't remember any of his past relationships, which I'm in no doubt he had, because _really_? Have you _seen_ this guy?

Anyway, I digress.

Not much has changed in respect of how we behaviour toward each other, as we'd been close right from the offset, but now, well . . . now it's _more_.

_Love_ plays the biggest part as it always does. Once you know that someone loves you and you them, there's this unconditional bout of trust and faith built up that seems unshakeable, and forms a bond that you never knew existed, let alone thought you could ever _have_.

This whole relationship business is so much more than I ever thought it would be. I have to wonder why it'd never appealed to me ever before, why I'd never dated a boy, never wondered if one thought I was pretty or what it would be like to hold their hand. But then the reason becomes crystal clear, and most of the time, the reason is right next to me.

It was because I was waiting for him.

I was waiting for Edward.

~#~

Sometime into my second week at staying at The Whitehouse, Edward's brother, Emmett, had returned home.

I'd been informed that he was away in England. His girlfriend of four years, and English citizen, Rosalie, had been in a car crash – a pretty bad one that had left her in a comatose state. He'd been distraught over his little brother going missing, but he couldn't leave her side. He was stuck in between two states of torment, but two that were absolved very near each other, much to his hearts relief.

Upon his returning home, I'd been in the kitchen with Esme and Alice. They'd been cooking dinner – even though they had many people at their disposal to do that job for them – they liked to cook, and, it seemed to me, they liked spending that time with one another as well.

"So, Bella," Alice had drawled as she stirred gravy over the hob. "Edward told me that you sleep talk?"

The smile that had been on my face dropped, as did the stuffing ball I was rolling. "What has he said?" I asked with silted eyes, starring suspiciously at her mischievous figure.

"Oh," she sighed, shrugging her little shoulders, feigning nonchalance, but the grin on her face gave her away. "Not much."

I open my mouth to say . . . something, but before I could she continued – "Something about pies," she sniggered, "or something, I don't know."

My face had erupted into a fire-truck as she burst out laughing.

"Alice, don't tease Bella," Esme scolded from where she stood preparing a turkey, but I could see her fighting back her own smile.

I had groaned, pushing the stuffing balls out of the way and burying my head in my arms, and said with my voice semi-muffled, "Edward Cullen is _dead_ the next time I see him," I huffed. "D E A D."

"Did I hear my name?"

Despite how many times I'd heard his voice, it never failed to send butterflies whirling in my stomach. I could feel tingles spread across my skin as I sensed his presence in the room, and then, his eyes on my hunched-over figure.

I hadn't lifted my head from my arms, because an involuntary smile had bloomed to my lips the moment he stepped into the room.

So, feigning irritation, I uttered, "_Someone_ has been spreading gossip about me."

"_Gossip_?" he gasped, his voice mock scandalised. "About you? _Who_ would do such a thing?"

I grinned wider. "Probably the same person that snores like a lion that's been on the beer all night and forgot to close his mouth so he drools _everywhere_."

Alice broke out into a fit of giggles, and when I turned my head to the side I could see Esme muffling her own laughter.

Silence from Edward, and then, "I do _not_ drool."

Not being able to contain it any longer, I had burst out laughing, and soon we were all gasping for breath and tears were racing down our cheeks in amusement. I leant over, grasping my knees for support as I continued to titter, staring up at Edward through blurry vision. He was laughing, too, and moved to rest his forehead on my shoulder as he chuckled; reverberating through his whole body, and as a result, mine too.

Alice and Esme have given up any pre-tense of preparing food and were leaning on each other as bright, shining smiles lit up their faces; their joy seemed to span out all around us, dotting the air with crystallised laughter. _That's _exactly what this situation was: _good_; laughing for no other reason than that we _could_. It was the very essence of family, of love and spending time with the _people_ you love.

I wondered if that moment could get any brighter than it was.

"Hey! Have you guys been telling jokes – and eating – without _me_?"

And then it did.

~#~

On the third week, I called Renee and Charlie.

I had sat on a plush sofa in Edward's room next to the huge bay window, staring out at the green land below, and then at the phone clutched in my palm in trepidation. Edward had asked if I'd wanted him to stay, I'd told him _no_, _it was fine_. I wasn't sure what I was going to say, but I needed to do this on my own.

He'd left with a gentle touch on my shoulder and a soft kiss dropped onto my forehead in an _okay_. I looked down below once again to see his figure strolling out into the garden, hands in pockets, with the smaller figure of his sister to the right of him, and the burly body of his brother to the left of him. She said something that made him throw his head back and laugh and playfully shove Emmett. He didn't even wobble, just knocked his brother back with his shoulder.

An unconscious smile had drifted up to my lips as I'd watched them; no guilt, just happy that they could be happy once again.

I watched them until they disappeared out of view before focusing my attention back on the phone. I chewed on my thumb before letting out a deep breath. I hadn't known what I would tell them even though I'd thought on it for an entire week. I guess I'd just have to go with it.

I shakily dialled out the number's for Charlie first and held the device to my ear; hearing my heart thrum nervously. I swapped my thumb for the inside of my cheek, and then my lip when I bit too hard and tasted copper.

"Hello?"

Silence. I opened and close my mouth but couldn't find the words.

"Hello?" he asked again. "Is anyone there?"

Finally, I managed to croak out, "Hi, dad. It's me. It's Bella." Which was a totally _unnecessary_ thing to say considering he only had one child, but I wasn't prepared for the realisation of how much I'd missed his voice.

Silence had crackled down the line and I had started chewing my thumb again because my lip just wasn't sufficing.

"_Bella_?" he'd breathed down the line.

"Yeah dad," I answered back, voice small. I closed my eyes. "It's me."

I heard a sound in the background, like something dropping, and then a breath of relief floated down the line. "Where have you _been_? Where are you? We saw on the news – " he broke off, took a breath – "your flat – and we tried to call but there was no answer, and we've been looking _everywhere_ – "

I had cut him off, because I could hear him working himself into a frenzy. "Dad, it's _alright_. I'm _fine_. Nothing's wrong – " I hesitated, bit my lip, not wanted to lie – " . . . anymore." I breathed in deeply and exhaled quietly down the line, "I just wanted to call you . . . let you know I was okay. I thought you might have been worried."

"_Might have been worried_?" he had echoed back, sounding incredulous. "Bella, it's been weeks!" he cried. "I've been out of my mind!"

My heart had burned in my chest, but it was almost a _good_ kind of burn. He _cared_, of course he did. I was his _daughter_. Of course he loved me. I looked back to those weeks now and wondered how I ever could have thought he didn't. I'd told Edward I thought I was a burden on him and Renee, but I didn't feel at all like that now. I felt like a particular part that maybe, just _maybe_, could never be replaced with anyone else.

I re-open my eyes when the sun hits my face, and I'm sort of smiling.

"Dad, I swear I'm okay, I'm safe, and I promise I'll tell you everything," I grimaced, "there's a lot to tell. But I'd really rather do that face-to-face than over the phone."

His answer is an unsatisfied huff. I smiled wider, imagining the twitch of his moustache. "Alright, Bella," he sighed out, "but can you tell me where you've been, at least? – Where you are now?"

I had bit my lip, looking around at my surroundings. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

~#~

On the fourth week, which brings us to the present, I decide it's time to go home.

"Edward," I say quietly, running my finger over the soft cotton of his shirt. We're out in the massive garden that accompanies the Whitehouse, because the weather has finally reached a stage where we're able to go outside in t-shirts without shivering from a cold breeze. Spring was firmly upon us, and we'd decided to take advantage of the warm, sunny day.

There was a red picnic black strewn out on the green grass and a sweet little picnic basket that was much lovelier than my own. It was full of sandwiches and small tea cakes, orange juice hand-made muffins. After eating our fill, we'd lounged back on the blanket, and now lay resting against each other, our eyes on the blue sky.

"Hmm?" he hums back, his nose in my hair.

I listen to his heart thump beneath my ear and close my eyes, enjoying the warmth on my face and his hand sliding up and down my back in long, soothing strokes. "I have to go back to Forks."

He tenses up immediately; his hands stilling on my back. My eyes flutter open, and I squint against the sunlight for a minute before twisting my body round and turning my head up towards his. "Edward?" I ask confusedly, shifting up a little and laying my palm on his chest.

"You want to leave?" he asks, and I'm surprised to hear the hurt which inflects his voice. His hands move to grip my hips tightly.

My eyes widen, realising he must have misconstrued me. "Not forever!" I practically _shout_ into his face. I shake my head. "I just meant I need to go back for a little while," I expand. "I need to see Charlie and explain properly." My brow furrows. "He's been so worried."

His face and body relax slightly, but doesn't relent all together. "I'm coming with you, then."

I huff through my nose. "I'm not completely hopeless, Edward." I frown down at him, and he frowns up at me. "I can take care of myself, you know. I'm not a little girl."

His eyes soften. "I know," he responds quietly, squeezing my hips gently. "It just makes me . . . anxious, to be away from you." His brow turns troubled and his eyes wander off into some place in his mind, some place only he can remember. "Especially considering what happened the last time I was away from you." His eyes move down my face to my neck, where's there's no blood anymore, but a small scar he probably can't even see in this light. Nevertheless, he looks pained like he can _still_ see it – all bloody and gory like it once was.

I lift my hand from his chest to his chin, drawing his eyes back to mine. "Hey," I say softly. "That's not going to happen again," I soothe, running my fingertip over his furrowed brow. "And that _wasn't_ your fault."

He comes back to the present with a tremble, and lifts his arms to pull me down into his chest. I tuck my head into the crook of his neck and he tucks his nose into mine; nuzzling. _Like a mole._

"Still," he breathes, "I worry."

I curl myself around him, letting my hands play with his hair because I know it relaxes him, and entwining my legs with his. I kiss the pulse point in his neck. "You can come with me," I tell him gently, "of course you can come. But if anyone messes with us, you've got to let me handle them."

He laughs through his nose. "Just make sure you're asleep when you're doing the handling," he says, and I can sense his grin. "You're a force to be reckoned with with all that sleep kicking and punching," he laughs. "Almost knocked _me_ out a few times."

I giggle against him. "You do_ jest, _Mr. Cullen."_  
_

"Absolutely not, Miss. Swan!" he cries in a distinctly English accent. I snort because it's _terrible_.

We quieten down and doze after that. I'm on the edge of sleep when I hear him whisper my name.

"Hmm?" I hum back, eyes still closed.

"Can I keep you?" he whispers, his hands twisting around locks of my hair, his body warm beneath me with life and energy and love.

I smile into his neck and say, "If I can keep you."

But in my heart I silently respond with, _forever_.

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N**:

Can I get a collective, _"AWWWWWW!" _:')

The ending of my chapter's always feel like the ending of the story to me, but alas, we're not done yet. :)

Hope you enjoyed this one! You all seemed to like last chapter, so I hope this one was okay.

If there's anything you don't understand or need explaining, just drop me a note in a review and I'll get back to you!

Favourite part/quote/moment?

Thanks for reading! xo


	43. 42: Cherry is as cherry does

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . cherry is as cherry does.  
**

"Are you sure about this?"

"Positive."

"Not regretting it yet?"

"Nope."

I cast him a quick glance before returning my attention to the road again. "Can you answer in more than one syllable _please_?" I ask, exasperated.

I see him turn to look at me out of my peripheral, his eyebrow cocked. "Only when _you_ stop asking ridiculous questions."

"They are _not_ ridiculous," I huff, squinting at the vegetation swallowing up the road on either side of us. And then, in a low grumble, "You being in this truck is _ridiculous_."

"That hurts, Bella," he says, his voice dripping in mock pain. "I thought you _liked_ me." He even raises a hand to his chest, and my frown wobbles. I almost duck my chin into my chest to hide the oncoming evidence of my smile, but then realise that I'm a _dangerous_ driver.

"Oh, hush," I admonish him. _I_ love _you_, I think, but don't say it. "You know that's not what I mean. It's just – you should be with your family." I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite down. "They really missed you, you know."

He sighs next to me and I wince, feeling my stomach churn. He slides across the truck bed until he's sitting as close as he can get without being on my lap and, you know, generally hindering my awesome driving expertise. "Bella . . . " he coos, and I bite down on my lip harder, but then his hands reaches across and he's releasing the soft flesh from my unrelenting teeth – not for the first time. "_You_ are my family. And I know they missed me, but I'm here now. They know I'm not going . . . anywhere." He nudges me gently and my lips tip up automatically. My mind reeling over his words – _you are my family._ "They understand why I need to go with you, and they don't begrudge me or you for it. So stop feeling so bad over it." He slinks down in his seat so he can rest his head on my shoulder comfortably; his hair ticking my neck. "Besides, I would miss you," he whispers, and then turns his head to place a soft, slow kiss on my neck. My eyes waver, want to close at the sensation but of course they _can't_.

"Stop that." I attempt to sound firm, but it comes out sounding more like a – _breathy_ – question than a demand.

Good lord, how did I turn from asexual to _breathy_?

"You're right," he agrees, pulling his lips away from my skin. I try not to feel just a _smidge_ disappointed. "Wouldn't want any more causalities on your hands."

_Damn these green-eyed, red-haired moles . . . _

I scowl out the windscreen. "You're such a – "

"Three's a company, after all," he interrupts, smirking wickedly, and winding an arm around me and snuggling in closer. "And I don't share well."

I melt.

_. . . or maybe not. _

_~#~_

"We're catching a _plane_?" I ask, dumfounded when Edward tells me to pull up at the airport.

He chuckles into my neck, gives me one last squeeze before pulling away to look at me, his eyes bright. "You thought we were going to drive there?"

I give him a blank look. I shrug.

"Bella, that would take about 40 _hours_."

My mouth drops. "No fudge?"

He grins at my substitute swear word. "Absolutely _not_ fudging you, madam."

I shake my head slowly, still quite baffled, because that means . . . "You were a long way from home then – before." I don't quite mean to say the words; they just sort of blurt themselves out. But they're still true_. Edward travelled all that way to get away from his before-life?_

The thought makes me heart sting.

Edward lifts his hand and rubs his thumb and finger down the side of his face. Briefly, he looks pained, but then he passes a hand over his eyes, and the storm has disappeared when they return to mine. He unbuckles his seatbelt without a word and gets out of the truck. I follow slowly after him, staring at the dashboard in front of my quietly for a minute before exiting, too.

I walk around the front of the truck and close the distance between us tentatively. He pulls me into a hug when I reach him, and he lets out a deep sigh into my hair, and sways us slightly on unsteady feet.

I bury my frown in his shoulder, knowing the storm has only been hidden, for the moment.

But with all lost things, they have to be found eventually.

~#~

He's quiet up until we've been seated on the plane – _first_ class – and two men decked out in black suits and sunglasses, trying to act inconspicuous but being very _conspicuous_. I shoot them a look through the gap between on our seats and decide we – or _Edward_, rather – is being shadowed by bodyguards of some sort.

Not surprising considering the last time he was left on his own, really.

When the plane starts to take off, Edward's hand unexpectedly shoots out and grasps mine tightly. My sight swerves from the tarmac out of the window to him; eyes closed, mouth pinched tight and skin paler than I've ever seen it.

I place my other hand on top of his one and give a gentle squeeze. Leaning close, I ask quietly, "Don't like flying?"

He grimaces. "Don't really remember doing it." He pushes his head back into his seat as the plane rumbles under us with the rapid movement of the wheels. Letting out a shallow breath, he whispers, "But I don't think so."

My heart gives a little tug in my chest. I lift my hand from on top of his and turn his face until he's looking at me – well, if his eyes had been open he would have been. "Hey," I whisper, running my thumb over the crease between his eyebrows until it smoothens out. I inch closer to him until our forehead touch – our sign of _peace_. "We can go back to the meadow once we get there, if you like." I stroke his tense jaw and his vice-like grip on my other hand slackens the tiniest amount. "Did I ever tell you the time that I tried to fish in that little stream that runs through it?" I whisper, because it feels safer in our bubble. He gives the barest shake of his head. "It was when I was younger . . . I was visiting Charlie because it was summer break. I'd watched him fish a few times – he'd taken me with him. But I'd refused to get into the boat because I didn't want to go to the lake. I was adamant that the loch-ness monster had immigrated and was hiding in there," I admitted, feeling my cheeks tinge pink slightly.

Edward lets out a breath and then his melodic laughter hits the air waves – only quiet, but still, I smile because it's worth the embarrassment. His hand has slackened marginally around mine now, but the plane still hasn't stabilised yet, so I go on.

"I told him I wanted to fish in the little stream in the meadow; he tried to discourage me because I obviously wasn't going to find fish in a five inch – more-puddle-than-anything – _stream_ . . . yet I was incorrigible. So there we were . . . five thirty in the afternoon, standing in water that came up to my ankles and Charlie's _toes_, and two fishing rods." My lips curl up into a full-on smile as I remember that afternoon. It was so long ago, yet the memory is as sharp as if it was yesterday. "Charlie humoured me, God bless him, but I bet we looked a right sight."

Edward laughs right out now, and my eyes snap open – unawares I'd even closed them. He looms right in front of me, his eyes open and glittering with mirth. "I can just see it now," he giggles, "you tripping over yourself in pink wellies and stamping your little feet and wondering if the loch-ness monster ate all the fish and left you none to catch."

My cheeks burn brighter, but I grin along with him. "I _never_ wore pink wellies."

"Bella, _every_ little girl wears pink wellies."

"Not me."

He cocks an eyebrow. "What colour were they, then?"

I pretend to think about it for a moment. "Fuschia," I giggle.

"That's just a fancy way of saying _pink_!"

I bump my nose against his and peck his lips once and pull away before he has a chance to react. I draw back to my own seat. The ground is no longer rumbling beneath our feet and it doesn't feel like we're going up anymore, though we probably are. "Worked though, didn't it?" I ask him with a grin.

Edward looks out of the window in astonishment, then at the lax grip he now has on my hand, down at his feet before meeting my gaze again. He smiles slowly, and says, voice smeared in awe, "You little minx."

I wink at him.

He looks up at the lights above, and the seatbelt one has now faded off, so he quickly slides his out and pulls the arm rest that acts like a barrier between us, up. He cuddles me into his side and I draw my arm across his waist, resting my head on his chest with a content sigh. "Thank you, Bella," he murmurs softly in my hair before littering little kisses across the crown. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

I smile softly and nuzzle into his chest. "Ditto," I whisper. Then he draws a hand under my chin and tips my face up. And he kisses me, lovingly and gently, for a long time.

~#~

By the time we arrive in Forks, I'm red-eyed and limp-limbed. Having been awake for the majority of the hours (I have _never_ been able to sleep on planes for some ungodly, unfair reason) I am, quite literally,_ dead on my feet. _Edward, on the other hand, is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Apparently it's quite easy to fall asleep if you've got someone running their hands through your hair, which I had been doing the majority of the time because I _couldn't_ sleep. I eye his beanie-covered, shaded eyes longingly.

I've reached the stage of fatigue where all you want to do is _cry_.

"Edward," I whimper pitifully, scooting over in the backseat of the car being driven by Edward's bodyguard. "I'm so _tired_." I'm aware I sound like a petulant 5 year old but there is really no capacity to care about this right now in my brain. All the grey more-mush-than-matter consists of is: _sleep sleep sleep sleep please fudging god what the hell is wrong with you 2+2 = 5 and a square has 3 sides and if you don't go to bed soon we're going to be kissing the pavement goodnight sleep sleep sleep…_

…And so on.

Edward sighs and draws me closer until my head rests on his shoulder. My eyes fall shut immediately. "I know sweetheart," he says, and his voice sounds oddly echoic and far away. "I'm sorry you couldn't sleep on the plane, but rest now, we'll be at the hotel soon and you can sleep until your heart's content..."

He may say more but I don't hear the rest, because I'm already on my way to sleeping till my _heart's content._

~#~

I sleep hard.

After drifting on Edward's shoulder, I vaguely recall being lifted and placed on a bed, a kiss being dropped on my forehead and a whispered _goodnight_. Someone pulled off my shoes, I think.

And then nothing.

When my eyes flutter open in _God_ knows how many hours, they're greeted by an unfamiliar room. I blink drowsily at the dim lighting shining through the shut curtains and yawn, bringing my arms above my head and stretching luxuriously. I groan at how good my well-rested limbs feel.

"Good morning, sleepy head."

I'm too relaxed to jump at the sudden voice, so I simply shift my eyes to the right. I smile languorously at Edward, who's emerging from a room I have to believe is the bathroom considering the amount of steam that follows after him. He pads over to me; the carpet beneath his feet muffling his steps. He sits on the side of the bed and brushes a wisp of hair out of my eyes.

"Hey," I croak out, my voice hoarse from lack of use. I'm too lazy right now to even _attempt_ to clear it. Licking my dry lips I ask, "How long was I asleep for?"

His eyes dart to the side of me, looking at, what I assume, is a clock. "About 14 hours." His thumb strokes the skin underneath my eye. "You crashed really hard, you must have been exhausted." His eyes turn worried then when he says, "You should have told me you couldn't sleep on planes. We would have sorted something else out."

I attempt a shrug, which really turns out to be just the _tiniest_ twitch of my shoulders that he probably doesn't even see. "I didn't want to be a bother."

He stares at me intently for a moment, before puffing his cheeks out and letting out a breath. He shakes his head ruefully before bringing his forehead to rest on mine. I close my eyes as his damp skin touches mine. "You're never a bother," he tells me, voice unexpectedly soft. He sighs again and his breath whispers across my lips; apple and cinnamon flavoured. "I guess I'll just have to keep reminding you until your stubborn brain will let the memo in, huh?"

I smile, and a tired limb rises to rest on his cheek. "I guess so," I whisper.

We stay like that for a while, until I think I might just nod off again, but then he pulls back. I blink my eyes open again after a moment, and my hand slips from his cheek to his bare shoulder from his motion. My eyes follow my hand and then further down and, _oh_…

My mouth _drops_.

My sleepy eyes are suddenly _wide_ open.

Because,_ GAH_.

I mean, _G A H._

"_Where_ is – _why_ are you – how come you _aren't_– " I babble incoherently as I stare as his bare – and, oh yes ladies, _wet_ chest. I give up on words and just let my eyes wander helplessly over all the pretty flesh he has on show. And _boy_ is it some show. I almost feel inclined to pay him or something, but then decide that may make him feel like a stripper – or, or _something_.

He chuckles, and I only notice because his chest moves with the motion. I _force_ my eyes to meet his. "I just got out of the shower," he grins, nonchalantly rubbing a palm down from his pectoral to his stomach. I make some kind of strange, strangling noise in my throat as my eyes are irrevocably drawn to the movement. I almost want to clasp a hand over my eyes because it feels like I _am_ watching a strip show. "Is it bothering you?" he asks, but his voice is lilted with amusement like he _knows_.

To be honest, I _am_ practically keeling over.

Fudge, what is this guy _doing_ to me?

My eyes snap up to his once they reach the towel that sits low on his hips; my cheeks fire-engine red. He's smiling widely at me; like he knows the effect he's having on me and is enjoying it. _Immensely_.

I fidget with the duvet and my eyes dart all around in an effort to avoid the Holy Grail in front of me. I focus my attention onto the window and the light that leaks from the sides and in the middle and _will_ the fire in my cheeks away.

"Penny for your thoughts, cherry?"

I _do_ jump that time because he's moved much closer; hovering on top of me with his arms on either side of my head. I stare up at him wide eyed. He's got a smirk on his face and his green eyes are glinting, his hair is a mussed-up wet mess on his head, and I can feel his heat and taste his smell everywhere.

I _gulp_.

"Cherry?" I squeak out.

He smirk grows before he dips down and kisses both of my cheeks.

"Oh," I mouth.

He rubs his nose against mine. "Hmm?"

Realising he wants an answer, I respond, in another squeak, "I'm incoherently tired."

He laughs quietly. "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

"I don't know _what_ you mean." I dart my eyes away from his again, but they only land on his arms, which doesn't really help any.

"Umm hmm," he hums in response before dipping his head again and pressing his lips against my throat. My eyelids flutter shut and my hands gradually fall into motion; hesitantly touching his bare back and shoulders first, but growing bolder as his kisses do.

His lips are slow and soft and they make goose bumps erupt all over me. His weight on top of me is steady and warm, and it makes me feel safe, protected, _small_. I drag my fingertips down his skin when his lips travel to my collarbones and press him _closer_. His mouth opens and my thoughts go fuzzy as his hands tangle in my hair, before dashing the duvet out of the way (so quickly that it is, admittedly, quite _impressive_) and traversing downwards towards my waist and then my hips; his hands bringing my body to life in a way its never lived.

An embarrassing noise escapes my throat when his hand moves up and rests on the exposed skin of my stomach – my t-shirt having ridden up during sleep – and starts kneading slow circles into the soft flesh. There's a strange tightening that makes me yearn for _more_. We hadn't done much more than kiss before, so this is… _new_. And not even the _slightest_ bit unwelcome.

"Edward," I breathe out, my hands rising to tug at his hair, causing him to moan against my throat. My whole body tingles and I grow warm everywhere he touches; his hand dips lower the _slightest_ bit and my stomach tightens further. "_Kiss me_," I beg him, breathlessly, eyes still closed in other-worldly bliss.

His retraces his path back up my throat slowly, until his lips rest on the shell of my ear. I shudder as his breath rushes across it. "Bella," he coos, and my insides turn to jelly. He places my lone kiss beneath my ear before breathing, "You should probably call your dad."

…

…

…

_What_?

I mean, _what_?

WHAT?

He pulls back before I can respond, jumping off the bed in one smooth motion and sending me one quick wink (and a smirk) before darting across the room and back into the bathroom.

I collapse onto the pillow beneath me, wheezing. Looking up at the ceiling in disbelief, I conclude that Edward Cullen is a _tease_.

I whack an errant pillow across my flushed face, attempting to calm the blur whizzing around my body. I'm still so hot and I can still feel his lips on my neck and hand on my stomach and my hands on him.

And I _can't believe he just left like that._

"He's going to be the death of me," I mumble incoherently into the pillow.

But realise it did just give me a _smidge_ of satisfaction to notice his cheeks had been as red as mine.

My waiting mouth turns up into a grin, and I say, voice muffled, "Bring it on, _cherry_."

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:**

I know what you're all thinking... does it _really_ take that many hours to travel from Washington to Forks? And the answer: no! It actually takes longer (according to google maps if you're travelling in a car). It really surprised me. I guess because Britain in so tiny in comparison and it could never take that many hours to get anywhere in it if you traveled from... anywhere in it...

There was something else, too...

Oh, yeah!

Holy UST!

...Right?

I TRIED guys. I thought they were being pretty UST-y there, but you decide. ;-)

Charlie's up next! He was originally going to be in this chapter, but these two kind of got, _ahem_, away from me a little bit...

See you next time! xo


	44. 43: Awkwardness is absent

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . awkwardness is absent. **

I sat in the back of the fancy car Edward's drivers had rented and tugged at my sleeves nervously. I couldn't bring myself to look out of the window, because I knew the short drive would seem even shorter then. I was incredibly nervous to be seeing Charlie again, which may have seemed ridiculous and maybe not. But all my mind kept churning over were the negatives; _what_ would I tell him? _How_ would I explain my disappearance? _Where_ would I tell him where I'd been?

"You look like you're having an aneurysm."

My right eye twitches. "I'm not entirely certain that I'm not."

A hand appears and covers and stills my own twitching two; warmth seeping from his palm into the back of my hands so that I relax, although only marginally. I tilt my head to the side slightly and look at him out of my peripheral. "I might be a little nervous," I admit.

He lets out a soft snort, encompassing both of my hands in his own and rubbing my cold digits to warm them. "Why are _you_ nervous? If I remember correctly, you told me your dad's a cop, meaning guns. And _I'm_ the interloper here, not you." He scoops my hands up and blows on them; his breath hot. "If anything, _I_ should be nervous." He peeks up at me from beneath sooty lashes and I can't help but smile at him. "Unless you're feeling nervous _for_ me, then I guess that's okay."

I shake my head ruefully at him and he grins back with a wink. "You're ridiculous," I laugh, but go ahead and tug him closer anyway, until his head rests on my shoulder. He sighs softly and his hair tickles my neck and wayward strands reach up to feather across my nose. _He likes it here_, I decide, watching him furl round the nook in my neck.

"I have every reason to be nervous," I counteract, absentmindedly lifting a hand and twirling it around butterscotch tufts of softness. "How am I going to explain . . . well, _everything_ to him?"

"Easy," Edward responds quietly, fingering my jean pocket. "Tell him the truth."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Bella, he's your _dad_. It's not supposed to be hard."

My brows furrow as his words ricochet around my mind. I think of him and his father and I want to call _hypocrisy_ on that, but I keep my lips closed.

"What?" I huff, "that I ran over the leader of the free world's son, gave him amnesia, kidnapped him and then kept him hostage for an entire month?" I shake my head incredulously though he doesn't see. "I don't think so."

Edward makes a disapproving sound in the back of his throat and tilts his head a little so he's peering up at me. Frowning, he interjects, "I would hardly call it _kidnapping_. And I really would like to think it was my decision to stay with you, so I wasn't a hostage. You may have knocked me over and given me amnesia but it was an accident." _He_ huffs this time, his breath stirring the hairs sweeping across my forehead. He looks at me pointedly. "I'm over it, so _you _get over it already."

I can feel my arguments breaking down as I stare into his eyes; shining green with determination and purpose. "I withheld information," I inform in a small voice, soldiering on. "You wouldn't have stayed with me any other way."

Lifting a hand, he brushes away the hair partly shielding my face and strokes my cheek. I lean into him irrevocably, but my insides are still knotted, my mind still troubled. "You should give me more credit. You always seem to doubt me," he says softly, his eyes growing gentle. "I could never leave you."

After a moment of allowing myself to be entranced, of letting my body grow warm and my senses tangle together like they were being drizzled in honey, I shake my head to clear it. "You say that _now_ . . . " I trail off, biting my bottom lip because I wonder why I just can't let things _be_.

His mouth lifts into a half smile as his thumb releases my lip from my teeth. "I don't share a couch on the first night with just anyone," he teases, and his eyes are bright like he's trying to lighten the air.

"Huh?" I ask in confusion, my hand pausing in his hair, after I've scoured through my mind only to come up empty. My brows furrow in perplexity.

"That first night," he says slowly, his voice lilted in mirth.

I pause. I think. I ponder, until . . . "_Huh?_"

And to think I'm an _English_ graduate.

His rises up until he's once more sitting next to me, and I'm left feeling a bit bereft by this fact because now I have to look up at him, and _damn_ if it doesn't feel like it's causing hassle for my neck.

"I was on your couch," he continues easily, "and I woke up and I saw you – all cramped up and uncomfortable in that chair – so I picked you up and snuggled with you, easy." He smiles as my face reddens slightly at the word _snuggle_. "And then I passed out again pretty quickly, and when I next woke up, there you were, giving me my very own sponge bath."

I roll my eyes at his wiggling eyebrows. "Why didn't you say anything? I had no clue how I'd gotten there."

He shrugs, and for the first time looks slightly _bashful_. Which of course he makes look adorably endearing. "It was a bit of a blur, to be honest. I thought I'd just dreamt it – dreamt you – and by the time I realised it actually _had_ occurred, well, there never did seem like a good opportunity to mention it."

I nod slowly, thinking that _yeah_, there was probably no opener for that in a conversation.

"_So, yeah. I forgot to tell you that I picked you up and cuddled with you on the first night I stayed here because that chair you were sleeping in looked terribly uncomfortable… what do you think? Curry for dinner?"_

"I guess not," I murmur aloud.

When I look back up at him, I notice him eyeing me carefully. "Are you mad?"

I shook my head, bewildered. "What? No, of course not."

"Good." He smiles, and picks up my hand in his, curling his much longer fingers around my palm and encasing my hand completely. I look down at our connected hands and relax back into my seat a little. And somewhere in the back of my mind I realise he just did what I did for him on the plane. He distracted me. He _comforted_ me.

"Thank you," I utter to him quietly, tearing my eyes away from our hands to catch his once more. He cocks his head to side, silently asking . . . _what for_?

_For so many things_, I want to shout, _for everything._

But I settle on, with a warming face, "For cuddling me."

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I find myself mimicking the action. "Anytime, princess." He squeezes my hand and slides his other arm around me and hugs me to his side. "You looked like you needed the comfort."

Dropping my head onto his shoulder, I close my eyes with a small sigh, my lips lifted into an effortless – _easy_ – smile.

And then very quietly I hear him say, "And this huntsman needed it, too."

~#~

Sometime later, the car comes to a stop and the atmosphere inside quietens as the key is removed from the ignition. I keep my eyes closed for a little while longer, just pretending, and Edward doesn't push me to hurry. He simply strokes my hair down my back in long, soothing sweeps. And it helps with the nerves – a little.

But knowing I can't stall forever, I blink my eyes open; the light soft and hazy. I peer up at Edward, he peers down at me, his eyebrows raised in an – _you okay_?

My eyes shift to the side slightly, and out of the tinted windows I take note of my sometimes-home from childhood. Charlie's cruiser is parked outside, along with Sue's truck, and the tree that we'd dubbed _Dave_ that sits right outside the front window seems to have grown another foot since I'd last been here. My stomach forms knots again, like I'm going to be sick, but I push the feeling aside as best as I can.

_Bella, he's your _dad_. It's not supposed to be hard._

I take Edward's words and hold them to my heart, like a medicine or vaccine.

Moving my eyes back to Edward's concerned ones, I inhale deeply. "Yeah," I tell him quietly, finding safety nets to catch me in his depths. And on the exhale, "I'm ready."

~#~

Edward and I – and his _bodyguard_, of course – stand waiting outside the front door; painted a verdant green colour to fit in with the scenery around, so you can't tell where the vegetation ends and the house begins. I glance nervously at Edward, and he gives me an encouraging nudge.

Raising a hand, I tentatively knock on the wood. Charlie knows I'm coming; I'd called him earlier, but somehow it still feels unexpected – out of the blue. I fidget, and know the reason for my anxiousness is standing next to me, and for a moment, I contemplate asking him to _please please just wait in the car_, but I know he'd refuse. It's not that I don't want him with me, it's just that I can only imagine how Charlie and Sue are going to react. Telling him is one thing, having the physical evidence next to you is another _entirely_.

I hear footsteps – the clanking of heavy duty boots on the wooden floor. My hands tangle themselves and I fidget uncontrollably until my hand is caught – and held – and I'm forced to relax against entwining, warm fingers.

"It'll be okay," he whispers, squeezing my hand gently.

I don't get a chance to respond, because abruptly, the door is thrown open and my dad is flooding the doorway and spilling out onto the front steps. All I see are his eyes – wide and brown and red – and the circles under his eyes – deep and dark and full – before I'm encased in all his plaid and lumber; his pine tree smell and clammy skin. He hugs me like he never has before, and there's no typical awkwardness either. So as I wind my arms around him in return, I say quietly, "Hi, dad."

~#~

Once he lets me go, he doesn't notice Edward, or the guy in the suit, at first. He simply looks over me with worried eyes – he has yet to speak – scanning me for any bumps or bruises; cuts or scrapes. I want to tell him _I'm fine,_ but know that if I do, it will have completely the adverse effect I want it to. _He's a parent_, I reason, _it's his prerogative worry._

And it does send a nice little shot of warmth through my heart. For someone who seemed as emotionally stunted as me – well, it's kind of nice to experience it. I guess the recent impending (you thought) doom of your child will do that to you.

Finally finishing his perusal, his eyes meet mine – the same kind of deep, brooding brown. With furrowed eyebrows he says, disapprovingly, "You're too thin."

I can't help the relieved grin that spreads across my face then, and suddenly I'm not tense or nervous or afraid anymore. "Maybe I need some of that cherry cobbler down at the café," I intone, feeling my shoulders droop." I haven't been there for a while."

He looks at me for a beat and then lets out a puff of breath that has his shoulders drooping, too. What a pair we are, I think, and realise he'd probably been as fretting as much as me – maybe more so – though for different reasons. Pulling me for another hug, more gently this time, he says into my hair, "When I saw your flat on the news – all broken up like that, I thought you were . . . I thought you had . . . " he breaks off, his voice sounding suspiciously choked.

"I'm okay," I reply softly, the tremor in my heart verbalising in my voice. "I'm here."

After a minute, he pulls back again, his hands gripping the tops of my arms lightly. "Don't you _ever_ do that again, Bella," he warns, tone afflicted but sure. "Do you hear me? Not ever."

I nod slowly. "I promise."

Sighing, his eyes are drained of their fight. His right hand has drifted up to smooth away wavy strands which obscure my face and, unbidden, I feel my eyes water. He used to do the same thing when I was a child, when I had a nightmare or fell over – which was a _lot_ – like he was smoothing out the rough tangles of pain.

_I_ tackle-hug him this time, prompting him to let out a surprised _oof_. Because I just realised how much I missed him – even before this whole complicated situation occurred. There had been a gap – a void – and I hadn't realised how empty I'd felt knowing it kept widening, and I didn't know how to stop it. "Dad," I whisper into his pine-smell; a lump in my throat. "I missed you."

He lets out a gruff huff sound and pats my back. I know he means, _I missed you, too._

When I pull back, we're both inconspicuously wiping our eyes, and it makes me smile.

Then suddenly, as if hit by lightning I realise I've forgotten all about Edward during our little reunion. With a little jolt, I spin around to face him, only to find him watching me with eyes as sweet as soft toffee. He smiles, his hands deep in his pockets, the wind playing with the strands of his hair – burnt orange against a pale blue sky.

I tilt my head to the side, and reach my hand out for his. Quickly, he draws a hand from his pocket and entwines his fingers with mine. Tugging him closer, I inhale before turning back to face Charlie. "Dad, this is – "

"Edward _Cullen_?"

I refrain from face-palming. Only just.

I guess it really _was_ just me who didn't know who this guy was.

Charlie's mouth gapes as he stares at the man at my side.

I sigh.

_Here we go again . . ._

* * *

**A/N:**

Sorry for the wait guys! Hope this chapter was okay for you all.

How'd you like that E/B sweetness? And that Charlie-Bella interaction? They all make me aw. :') And yes, that Princess-Huntsman analogy will continue. :)

And, seeing as it's my birthday tomorrow (I'll be turning 18, eek! It means I can legally drink, though I probably won't. Youth is absolutely _wasted_ on me) how about you leave me a little gift in the form of a review? ;)

See you soon! xo


	45. 44: Uncomfortable topics

**A/N:** So, it's been a couple of weeks . . . *looks around nervously* . . . you all still there?

* * *

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . the topic is still _uncomfortably_ on me.**

Once inside, we all sit stiffly – Edward and me on the couch and Charlie on the arm chair opposite. The man in black (no, not _Johnny Cash_), aka, Edward's bodyguard stands under the arch where the living room meets the hallway, casting suspicious glances all around, like the TV might suddenly detach itself from its wires and pounce on Edward. I fidget where I sit, my eyes darting here and there to catch fleeting glimpses of my before-life, now so irrevocably changed. I feel a pang and think it might be regret, like honey being poured into my insides, I become too full. Everywhere I look I see bits of memorabilia from the past, but at the same time it seems faded somehow, as if once vibrant objects have been shaded in by a delicate hand. The change is barely-there, but it is noticeable.

Finally, Charlie breaks the silence.

"So, Bella," he mutters, lifting a finger to rub at his forehead. "You gonna…" he trails off, gesturing airily at Edward and I, looking perplexed. There was really no need for introductions earlier, yet Charlie had offered his hand anyway. And since then, it seems as if he's been a state of befuddlement. Understandable really, all things considered.

I clear my throat and glance at Edward out of the corner of my eye. He's running a hand through his hair, looking at Charlie sheepishly, and that should be my persona, not his. Biting down on my bottom lip, I face Charlie straight-on. "It's a long story," I say wearily, the words coming out on a sigh.

Charlie raises his eyebrows ever so slightly, turning his head slowly and giving a pointed look at the bodyguard, as if to say how really essential it is anyway, before turning back to face me. "You said you'd tell me everything," he says, and his eyes momentarily flicker to Edward. "I think it's about time you did."

I let out a huff of breath, lean forward and start, "I was driving my truck…"

~#~

About half hour later, after all the details have been verbalised, I collapse back into the seat behind me, and wait. I watch him warily as he slowly straightens his spine, blinks once, and then again, before focusing on me, and then Edward. He clears his throat. "Thank you for taking care of my daughter, Edward."

Edward smiles gently and squeezes my hand. "She took care of me, mostly. I was just returning the favour."

"Well," Charlie replies, emotion thick in his tone, "she's certainly resilient." He glances at me and I smile – truly, cheeks warming under his praise. "God knows she took good care of me for so many years – still does." I duck my head slightly, still unused to hearing Charlie being so free with his feelings. I like taking care of people. I don't know, it's something that seems almost ingrained within me. I'm shy and quiet and distant, but all I want to do is reach out to people – if they'll let me.

After a moment or two or quiet, I pick my head up and ask quietly, "How are you though, dad? – Really? I mean, how've things been around here? Have you been – "

"Bella," Charlie says loudly, interrupting my words. I look at him wide-eyed. "Stop avoiding the subject – Lord knows it's big enough." He raises his eyebrows. "We're still on you. And there are some things I'd like to know, if you don't mind."

I bring my bottom lip into my mouth and furrow my brows. "Sure," I mutter, because I really can't deny his curiosity. But I'm not – sure, that is. I just want things to be how they were before between Charlie and me, before this situation ballooned up in both our faces, and made him think something awful had happened to me.

Only . . . I don't, not really. There were gaping holes before, wide spaces opening in the spaces between us, and I didn't like it, but I didn't know how to fix it. But how can this be the plaster to mend the ever-widening gap?

How is a problem the cure for the one that preceded it?

Charlie's voice jars me out of my circular thoughts.

"After you were taken by those Government officials, what happened then?"

I grimace and almost scoff at the word _officials_, and Edward actually might. I press my lips together and think best how to phrase what I have to say next. I had kind of hazed over the whole situation slightly – OK, OK, I had turned the lights out, thrown a blanket over it, stuffed it in the back of the wardrobe, and placed it behind a thick, thick wall of about 100 metres of steel.

But there are some things that are best left hidden, and this is one of them.

His eyebrows furrow at my silence, and his mouth turns down into a frown. He leans forward and he's got that 'cop' look on his face, the one that can wheedle anything out of anyone. I squirm slightly in my seat and my eyes dart all around the room, if only to avoid his seeking gaze.

"Well?" he prompts.

I look back at him helplessly.

"It's all a bit hazy, to be honest," I lie weakly, and am only saved from, well, _myself_ when the phone rings. Charlie gets up to answer it, but his eyes let me know he's not finished.

_I am a _terrible_ liar._

"You're a _terrible_ liar," Edward reiterates my thoughts, after Charlie has gone into the kitchen. He turns to face me. "You're going to have to tell him sooner or later, you know."

I huff and slouch back into my seat, picking at a piece of loose thread on my jeans. "Who says?" I ask petulantly.

"Charlie, the 'I-can-see-into-your-soul' cop."

I roll my eyes.

"Plus, as I pointed out about two seconds ago, you're a terrible liar. You can't hide this forever."

I ignore him.

"Bella," he sighs, slouching next to me and ducking his head to try and catch my eyes. I glower at the blue thread and tug at it harder. _Stupid, stubborn cotton . . . _

He hooks a finger underneath my chin so I'm forced to look at him. I close my eyes right before I catch a glimpse of his verdant green.

He lets out an annoyed sound and huffs. His palms surround my face as he cups my cheeks and caresses the soft skin under my eyes. "I'm not trying to force you into doing something you don't want to," he tells me gently, his breath whispering across my face. "But he's your dad, Bella. Imagine if the roles were reversed, would you honestly want him to keep something like that to himself?"

My face crumples. I wouldn't.

"Of course not," I reply, "but I'm not keeping it to myself. You know."

I feel his hair move against my forehead when he shakes his head. "Not really. I just saw what was there while it was still fresh. Carlisle told me it was one of the people who worked for him, but that's it. I don't have a name or a face or anything else like that. All I have are fragmented bits and pieces because _you_ _won't tell me anything_." He lets out a breath, and it sounds shaky, his voice, strained. I clench my eyes shut tighter. I hadn't realised it had bothered him so much, the not knowing. "And it's been driving me _crazy_, but I haven't pushed you for anything, because I thought you'd tell me what must be _aching_ inside of you to actually come out."

My heart pangs and my eyes open only to find his closed; his forehead resting heavily on my own, like he needs the support or reassurance. I want to lift my hand to stroke his cheek, to tell him I do _ache_, that I do want to tell him _everything_, but my hand remains frozen where it is, my mouth stays closed.

Because . . . "Would it really help?" I ask in a whisper. "Knowing what he said and did . . . wouldn't that make you feel bad? Wouldn't it make _Charlie_ feel bad?"

He opens his eyes slowly, pulling back slightly to better see me. His mouth is set, his eyes are dark. But when he speaks, his voice is tender. "I'd be angry, and sorry I wasn't there to stop it." He reaches up and softly strokes my cheek, his fingers drifting down to my neck to lightly rub at the scar there. I let my eyes close and drop my forehead into his neck. "But I'd be relieved you didn't have to carry around that burden with you anymore, because I'd carry it for you until into dwindled away into nothing."

I can feel my heart in my fingertips, my throat, _everywhere_. He's warm and steady and stable, and he'd walk the long way home with me even though he could take the shortcut to arrive there quicker. There are no u-turns or hidden paths for him, for me, there is just the way ahead, and we're not running from it or trying to find easier, faster ways through.

A quick fix isn't really a fix, just an inevitable putting off of things. And all of I sudden, I realise that's what this is. That's what I've been doing all this time.

When I hear the absence of Charlie's voice in the kitchen, I pull back slightly. I peer up at Edward, and he peers down at me. Our eyes collide instead of clashing, and a message drifts from mine up into his own. Trees wink at soil in acknowledgement, and everything is okay and right for a while.

I nod at him, and my frozen hand finds his cheek. "Okay," I whisper, when I hear Charlie's footfalls in the hallway. "I don't want this inside of me anymore."

"Then share it," he replies softly, placing his hand over mine. "And don't think about how bad it will make Charlie or me feel. Think about how _good_ it will make you feel to finally tell someone."

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**A/N: **Edward is a sweetheart . . . that is all.


	46. 45: Things get a little, ahem, steamy

**A/N: **I know it's been a while. I'm really sorry! But this chapter should really, _really_ make up for it. There's a limey warning on this one - **SO DON'T READ IF YOU SHOULDN'T BE READING THIS OR IF YOU'RE GOING TO YELL AT ME IN A REVIEW FOR PUTTING BELLA AND EDWARD IN COMPROMISING POSITIONS. **

Don't say I didn't warn ya! The title pretty much says it all anyways. Enjoy ;)

* * *

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . things get a little_ (a lot)_ steamy.**

After I've unloaded the shadowed areas of my thoughts which had been pulling me down for so long previously, I break through the surface with a gasp. The heavy weight that had prior been pressing down on my chest is suddenly lifted, the bars that had been surrounding my mind suddenly shatter like they were made of a thin sliver of glass, and nothing more. I look at Charlie, and then at Edward, and despite all of what I've told them – the man's threats, his knife on my skin – I feel something akin to relief skitter across my face before it sinks deep into my bones. And there is stays as I seep back into the sofa like I'm made of liquid, not matter.

Charlie and Edward, on the other hand, look like they're ready to combust at any moment.

Their hands are clenched, their faces burning and their eyes hard. They are perfect mirrors of each other.

I wince at the steel in their gazes, even though I know it's not for me.

The silence cuts into the relief in my bones.

Charlie is the first to speak. His tone deadly, his words harsh – words I've never heard him say before.

"I'm going to fucking _kill_ him."

~#~

"That's all I know," I say for the umpteenth time, rubbing my eyes in exasperation. "His name is Felix, and the President said he'd be punished for what he did to me."

After half an hour of angry yelling, and coarse words flung at a man not present, Charlie has come to a sort of impasse. He wants this man – no doubt about that, and no doubt what for, either. But based on the minimal information I'd given about him, it didn't look like he'd be getting his hands on him anytime soon.

He passes back and forth in front of me, wearing down the floor underneath. Occasionally he stops, looks at me, before picking back up his rapid movement again.

"Dad." I reach out when he passes in front of me and place a hand on his arm. He pauses in his steps and looks at me, eyebrows in a permanent state of furrow. "You don't have to fret about this. The President said he'd deal with it. It's okay."

"No, it's _not_." He resumes his frustrated walking. "You're my daughter. Renee and I didn't bring you up just to let some Goddamned sick _bastard_ hurt you like that."

I sigh and start rubbing my eyes again. On a level, I understand his need for retribution – someone hurts your child and you don't just let it go. But another part of me just wishes he _would _just let it go, because it's over – it's done, and I don't really want to go back there.

He abruptly stops again, crouching down in front of me. His eyes scan my neck, but the tiny scar is covered by my hair.

"No," I say abruptly, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Bella, show me."

"It'll just make you more upset."

He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat_. "Bella."_

"Fine," I huff, gathering my hair in one hand and sweeping it over my shoulder. I tilt my head a little as he squints.

"See?" I say, trying to break into his – I'm sure – violent thoughts. "There's barely anything there."

He ignores me. I know immediately when he catches sight of it, because he reels back as if he's been struck, his hand grasping the sofa arm tightly.

His eyes turn desperate when he looks back up at me. "Anything?" he pleads, and I know he's asking for more information. He's a cop, so his detective skills are pretty ace, but even he can't chase such a loose end.

I naw on my lip as _Felix's_ face flashes in my mind.

"His eyes were dark – pitch black," I mumble, before dropping my eyes from his.

Edward is silent beside me.

~#~

Hours pass, Sue returns home, and then things start to blur.

I'm exhausted by the time eight o'clock rolls around, even though I'd had fourteen hours sleep the previous night. After digging up so much of the previous months today, I feel utterly drained.

Edward notices, because he winds his arm around me, encouraging me to let my suddenly heavy body rest against him. He's been oddly quiet ever since I finished talking about Felix, and every time I look over at him, his eyes have been distracted and far-away. I know without asking that he's calculating something.

"Hey," I say softly, nudging Edward gently. Charlie and Sue are in the kitchen, and we've been coerced into staying for dinner – a late one, mind, considering today's events. "You okay?"

He blinks a couple of times into the middle distance, but I know what he sees isn't in front of me. He tips his head down to look at me, and smiles. "Are you?" he asks.

I don't miss that he's avoiding the question, but I slink back into the sofa – and his embrace – anyway. "Yeah – actually." I slip my fingers in between his shirt sleeve, laying my head back on his shoulder. "Today's been alright. I'm glad everything's out in the open now. I'm just so – " I break off, my words folding into a yawn.

"Tired," he finishes for me, smiling softly. He cups my face in his hands before leaning in and kissing the tip of my nose. "You should sleep."

I close my eyes as he starts to litter tiny, baby kisses all over my face. There's something lingering under the surface of his quiet caresses – something urgent. "They're making dinner," I say, half-heartedly, because I'm not really hungry, and cuddling with Edward sounds like the most appealing thing I've ever heard of right now.

"Hmm," he breathes softly against my forehead. His hands have fallen down and now his fingers trace patterns on my neck. I can feel his thumb gently rubbing over a spot continuously, and know he's caressing my scar.

Under the sleeve of his shirt, my fingers slither up to his forearm, to the same spot I saw his scar before, and I do the same.

"But sleep sounds really good right now," I whisper.

He kisses my forehead gently. "I'm not really hungry," he whisper-replies back.

I smile. "Me neither."

~#~

We arrive back at the hotel about half an hour later. Charlie was reluctant to see us go, but I told him we'd be back tomorrow as soon as we could get here. He'd hugged me tightly, and I'd buried my face in his shoulder and breathed in his pine smell.

"_Sue said she'd make up the bed in your room tomorrow, so you can stay with us." My heart clenches – _my room_. "And Edward can… sleep on the sofa." I snigger into his neck, but nod my acquiescence. _

"_I really missed you, Bell," he whispers. "I'm really glad your home."_

_My eyes water. I squeeze them tightly shut when I reply, just as quietly, "Me, too."_

He hadn't mentioned the matter of Felix again – maybe he could see how much I didn't want to talk about it – and for that I was grateful. But I knew he wouldn't let it go – not until he found him.

When we get back to the hotel room, I immediately collapse onto the bed behind me, not even bothering to remove my shoes or coat. I sigh as the soft mattress takes all of the weight off of me, and I'm left feeling so light I could float away.

I hear Edward close the door, and his feet padding on the carpet as he crosses the room. My lips start to curl when I feel his hands on my feet, gently pulling off my shoes.

"It's like having my very own butler," I tease. "Awesome."

My teasing sigh turns into a groan when he pushes his thumbs into the balls of my feet, doing some kind of magic voodoo on them. It's not like I've been walking a lot lately for them to ache, but damn if it doesn't feel nice anyway.

My arms are flung out to the sides, my fingers loose. I feel the most relaxed than I have in a while. Who knew words carried such a great weight?

I almost start to doze off after a while because of the ministrations of his hands on my feet. My eyes are in that lazy half-open state, and my breaths are slow and even. I'm on the cusp of falling when I feel his hands drift up, his fingers spanning over my jean-clad calves. I blink up at the ceiling and peer down. From this angle, all I can see is the top of his head – bent over as he is – and I can't bring my arms to move to lift myself up.

After a moment, his forehead drops completely, resting on my knee. I can hear his breaths, slow but not quite steady, and I can feel his fingers as they trace up and down my leg.

"Edward?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't respond. Instead, his hands rise even further and span over my thighs. My breath hitches in my throat and my head shoots up. I'm wide awake now.

He's still curled over, his forehead still tipped down and resting on my knee, so I see nothing but his hair and his hands. Like earlier, I can feel something resting just below the surface of his touches. Something I'm not privy to is driving him.

I can do nothing but watch, wide-eyed, as his long, elegant fingers travel up and down, up and down. They look like white spider legs dancing over a sea of blue, and they make me shiver. I want to say his name again, ask him if he's okay, but all of my breath has been drained out of my lungs, and it's all I can do to get sporadic gasps of air into them.

Finally, he unfurls from his crouched position on the ground. I can see him but I can't – his eyes are on his hands, on me, but not on my eyes. His hands run higher and higher until they sweep against my hips, and he rubs his thumbs back and forth over a sliver of exposed skin. His movements aren't frantic or rushed, rather, they're slow and deliberate – like he's calculating everything and committing it to memory. But there's something building – I can see it lurking in the corners of his eyes and trembling under his skin.

I swallow dryly, and my head drops back onto the mattress when he leans over me. His touch skirts over my stomach, feathers my sides before he gently sweeps the pads of his fingertips over my coat-covered arms. Without a word he tugs the material off of me in a movement that's all grace. He pushes the sleeves of my shirt up when he has, and his lips descend on my exposed skin like petals kissing the smooth glass of water. My breath judders out of me as I watch him, red on white.

He mirrors the action on my other arm when he reaches my shoulder, and when he kisses my throat – his favourite spot, it seems – I have to close my eyes. Because it's too much. _He_ is too much.

When he finds my scar, he pauses, and I can feel the flutter of his eyelashes tickling my skin when he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. My heart pangs in my chest, and I want to hug him to me, and plead for him to move on, but before I can he presses a fierce kiss onto the mark, over and over again, as if by sheer will, and care and affection and _love_, he will erase it, as well as the memory.

"Oh, Edward," I barely murmur, so quiet I'm sure he doesn't hear me. Because I think I just found out the reason for his urgency – for his desperation tumbling under the surface.

But then water hits the glass ceiling, and it shatters, and the liquid rushes out – unstoppable.

I barely have time to gasp before his lips are suddenly on mine. He swallows my cry of surprise, coaxing my mouth open. My hands shoot to his hair for support when his arms twine around me tightly, simultaneously pulling me into him and pressing me into the bed below.

His mouth is frantic on my own, and if I were to open my eyes, I'd seen the pained furrow between his brows. But right now all my hormone-filled body can concentrate on are his fingers slipping and sliding over my skin, and the reeling feel of his tongue on my own. He tastes like mint, aniseed and cinnamon, and he feels like liquid heat. He burns me with his touch – but it's a pleasant kind of burn; one that warms me from the inside out.

I have to tug on his hair to coax his head backwards so I can pull away, because I can't _breathe_. My stomach is flip-flopping and my nerve endings are tingling. And there's something oh-so wrong with his urgency, but before I can tell him to _stop_ or _slow down_, his lips are pulling at the skin on my neck softly, and my thought capacity barrels out of the window.

His wet kisses travel further down and I'm so disoriented _by_ him and intoxicated _with_ him that I don't notice his hands slipping from around my waist to tug at my shirt buttons.

I simply lay panting, staring up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. And then my shirt is unbuttoned all the way and I can only moan when his lips kiss the centre of my chest, when his hand finds purchase on my stomach – his palm spanning across my entire midsection. With his other hand he tugs the shirt lapels aside impatiently, and then I'm laid by bare for him – physically, because I'm semi-naked from the waist up, and mentally, because I always have been.

I try to muffle my cries of pleasure by turning my face into the pillow, but it's all futile against his fingers and lips. My chest heaves, and he kisses the swells of my breasts, the palm of one hand caressing desperate circles on my stomach, the fingers of the other ghosting up and down my ribs.

He is insatiable, and in my glazed-eyed, Edward-induced euphoria, I am, too.

My fingers untangle from his hair, reaching down to tug at his own shirt. He pulls his lips away from my skin only for a moment while he stretches up to pull of his top. I swallow a sudden build up of saliva as the long, stretched expanse of his torso comes into view.

_So beautiful_, I think, tracing the lines of his muscles first with my eyes, and then with my fingers. His skin is smooth and soft, but firm. I drag my fingertips over his biceps, across his chest and down to his stomach. All the while he holds himself over me, hovering. When I glance up at him, he's watching me intently.

I pause, my breath stalling. I think this is the first time he's looked at me since we started . . . _this_. And I feel my stomach drop at the look in his eyes, because as I knew before, something is not right. The urgency is misplaced.

He descends on me just as I open my mouth to say . . . _something_. I'm cut off by the feel of his bare chest against my own – our skin collides, burns and sizzle and zaps – and I'm sure I go positively cross-eyed at the feeling.

He once again buries his face in my neck, keeping me close as his hand dips down to grab my jean-clad leg and hitch it over his hip.

I can feel my vision fuzzing at the edges, pleasure pooling into my stomach when his hand tightens around my thigh and rolls his hips against mine. I groan so loudly I think the glass in the windows might shake. He moans right back, his vocal pleasure so sweet in my ear right before his kisses descend on my chest again. He slides a trembling hand under my back – tugging at the clasp – before my bra falls loose around me.

My eyes snap open and grow wide as saucers as the garment is thrown over the side of the bed. I gasp, looking down at my now _nude_, flushed chest, and see Edward doing the same.

"Edward, wait – " I start, but he cuts me off with a kiss as his hands rise, his fingertips circling the flesh on my breasts. My hands immediately grasp his back, my fingernails digging into his skin when his thumbs trace my nipples like feathers might. I cry out into his mouth, and he pants heavily into mine.

"You feel so good," he mutters incoherently between long, passionate kisses. "So soft," he murmurs, letting his thumbs press down, so that it sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.

"_Edward!"_ I pant-cry, lifting my hips up to his and pulling him closer. His skin is hot and clammy with sweat, and I know mine is just the same.

His body slips down mine in unison. Just as his fingers slip from my chest down to my stomach, his mouth slips from mine down to my breasts. I throw my head back in ecstasy when he sucks one pebbled nipple into his mouth – the pulling of his mouth and the swirling of his tongue causing my hands to shoot up to grasp the headboard above me – _too much_. My chest is thrust out and he moans – in what I take to be pleasure – sucking harder. The vibration sets my nerves even more frazzled than they had been.

"_Oh God, Oh God, Oh God_," I pant under my breath, watching through half-lidded eyes as Edward's hands starts massaging my stomach again. I'm so hot it's almost unbearable. My stomach is so tight with . . . _something_, that _it_ is unbearable. I feel like I could explode soon if something doesn't give. The strings inside of me are being pulled too tightly – I feel ready to _snap_.

"Oh, please!" I cry out, not sure what I'm asking for. Edward's ministrations grow even more desperate. His lips dart to my other breast and his hand pushes my jeans down, but it's still not enough. "Edward, _please!"_

He groans against me and nods almost imperceptibly, the strands of his hair tickling my collar bone. With one hand, he hitches my leg higher on his hip, locking it around him. He spreads my other leg open with his right hand before sliding it back to my stomach and then lower, lower, _lower_ . . .

"Oh!" My squeak of surprise turns into a moan when I feel his fingers right _there_. He gazes up at me through darkened lashes, momentarily lifting his head up from my chest, watching me.

He shifts against me, his fingers sliding into foreign territory. I can't even bring myself to be embarrassed, because all I can feel is this all-consuming burn that has me trembling, wanting to tip over the edge but not quite there yet.

His digits are slick as they slide against me; hot fingers against searing flesh. It's impossible for my eyes to remain open while he works my body like this, but I can feel the heat of his gaze like a physical imprint upon me. The air is filled with our harsh breaths and moaning. I'm free-falling towards something, and I can only rely on Edward that he'll catch me.

I just about bite my lip of when his finger slides inside of me – briefly brushing against my clitoris. The feeling is strange, and I breathe shallowly while he explores. I grip the headboard tighter, and then I feel his lips on my hot skin once again.

_Too much,_ I want to cry out. _Too good._

Sweat beads on my brow and chest as he continues to move in and out of me, his finger curling before he adds a second – and I feel so _full_, so _satiated_. He pumps them so slowly – it doesn't hurt at all – and it feels like a bittersweet torture. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes must have passed since he first started filling me. He's drawing this out, and it feels _so_, _so good_, but I don't know how much more I can take.

My fingers leave the headboard to grasp his hair, pulling him against me. I roll my hips towards him – _needful_ – as I whisper hoarsely, for the umpteenth time, "_Edward_ – please!"

His fingers pick up their tempo, stretching, reaching, _searching_. I'm a damp, sweating mess – slick and hot against his digits. He curls, curls, _curls_ them, suddenly reaching down with his other hand to roughly stroke my extremely sensitive and swollen clitoris.

I scream.

He doesn't stop.

He strokes and strokes and _strokes _before he squeezes the nub between forefinger and thumb, and with one last pump of his fingers where he hits a spot inside of me I never knew _existed_, my whole body starts to writhe – and I explode.

The amount of pure _pleasure_ that courses through me has me raising my hips off up the bed towards his fingers, as if to absorb every last drop of the ecstasy he's giving me. My mouth is open in a silent scream; my eyes are closed – colours bursting behind my lids.

When I'm able to open my eyes, he's hovering above me. My chest is heaving, but so is his. His fingers are still buried deep inside of me.

I stare up into his wild, wide, bright eyes, and wonder what the _heck_ just happened.

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:** *whistles nonchalantly*

What? I told you it was limey. ;) And do I really need to ask you guys what your favourite part was, _really? _;)

This was actually my first time writing such a scene like this. So I hope it was okay!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have a cold shower. Because writing this? Yeah...

Thanks for reading! Love you all. :) xo


	47. 46: Desperation explained

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . desperation is explained, and it's _more_ than okay to do it again.**

I stare up at him like a fish out of water; my mouth opening and closing, opening and closing – _wash, rinse repeat._

I watch as the fire in his eyes slowly distinguishes – like it's being snuffed out by an inside chill. Where before they were wet and molten with unadulterated passion, now they're frozen – like an emerald about to crack over with panic.

"Edward," I say slowly, hoarsely, because I can feel the flight in his body about to pull him away from me. I place my hand on his cheek, and we tremble together.

He swallows visibly as he looks down at me, his skin turning ashen when his eyes drift down to my chest, further down until they stop where his fingers are still . . . are still . . .

"_Jesus!_" he hiss-croaks – an odd combination; simmering anger and pure horror. My heart thunders at his tone, and I wince when he yanks his hand away from me.

He rises from the bed, his chest bare and heaving, his hair dishevelled. His mouth parts as he stares at me, but not like before. This time, his lips only open to say –

"Oh, _God_. Bella, I'm so sorry – so _sorry_. I can't believe I just – "

He doesn't even finish, breaking off with an agonised sound. He darts to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Tears pool in my eyes – the sting is sharp. I look down at my mostly bare body, and my bottom lip trembles.

I fold in on myself, quickly reaching over the bed and snatching the first piece of clothing my fingertips come in contact with. I cover every nude facet of my skin with the shirt and then the blanket. I shiver even though it's not cold, and suddenly feel a lot more naked than I did five minutes ago.

~#~

Edward doesn't return, and the banging that came from the bathroom peters out, so all I have to listen to is my own heartbeat and unsteady breaths. My face is wet and I feel sticky and damp all over. I want to wash what we did off my skin – because it was obviously a mistake.

My thoughts tumble around like little bombs in my head. Every few seconds a new one explodes, and the effects are devastating.

His words are on repeat in my head – _I'm so sorry – so sorry._

The desperation in his eyes flashes front and centre in my mind and I knew, I _knew_ something was wrong but I never stopped him. Because it felt too good, because it felt like he was giving me something special. Because I'd never felt that close to anyone before – never _wanted_ to.

I close my eyes. I hide under the duvet. I turn my face into the mattress and let it grow damp.

Eventually, exhaustion must take over.

I fall asleep.

~#~

When I wake, I keep my eyes closed. And for a moment, I don't remember anything, and I almost smile.

But then it all comes rushing back like a freight train, and my smile falters.

"I can take that." Edward's smooth, quiet voice jolts me. I only open my eyes briefly – he's standing at the door, his back to me – before snapping them closed again. I'm hiding. I'm not sure I'm ready to talk.

"Thank you," he utters again, very quietly, before the soft sound of the door shutting signals to me that the other party has left. I hear a swishy, squeaky movement for a moment – like miniature wheels on a toy car – before the silence bears down on me again.

I try to make my breaths slow and deep to mimic sleep when I hear his feet padding across the carpet – _towards me._ My heart races in my chest, and I wish I could give the sore, pumping muscle a pat or a hug or something for being such a trooper these past few months.

He stops right next to the bed – I can hear his breaths – and then I feel the dip of his weight as he sits next to me. I bite down on the inside of my cheek when I feel his hand stroke away the hair from my face; his fingers only feathering, like he's afraid he'll break me.

"Oh, Bella," he whispers, combing his fingers through my hair gently. Despite everything, I can feel my heart starting to slow. No matter what, he's like a balm to all ails – mental _and_ physical.

I stop biting the inside of my cheek raw when I feel the heat of his lips press against my forehead softly. I feel a wave of relief wash over me, and fight the inclination to sigh. He brushes all of my insecurities away as easily as if he were brushing lint from a suit jacket. He'd made me ache when he left, but with his soft touch it dissipates so easily, like he's withdrawing my worries away with his lips and fingertips.

I blink my eyes open slowly when his heat disappears – but his warmth lingers. He's very carefully tucking the sheet around me, securing it and smoothing it so I'm all covered. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he's biting his lip.

I wait for his eyes to settle on mine. And then they do.

He looks momentarily startled when he catches my open eyes, his own widening and glossing over with a mild panic. I want to grasp his hand in case he runs again, but I can't because it's tucked so carefully under the sheet.

Turns out I don't need to, though.

He smiles at me – but it's a wary kind of smile, like he's not sure how I'll react to it – to _him_.

I blink a few more times, looking for clear edges past the blur.

"Hi," I whisper, and my lips turn up automatically.

His body visibly deflates – like I've just lifted a heavy burden from his shoulders – and his head droops a little.

"Hi, sweetheart," he whispers back, lifting his hand hesitantly to touch my cheek. From underneath his lashes, his eyes are no longer panic filled, but looking like they could overflow with relief.

_I know the feeling,_ I think.

I swallow thickly. "Why did you run?" I ask hoarsely.

He flinches like I've just slapped him, and his thumb pauses stroking my cheek. I watch him openly, and when he lifts his eyes to mine, he watches me back earnestly.

"I was ashamed," he says quietly, and even though his tone is filled with just that – _shame_ – he doesn't drop my eyes from his. "Of what I did to you."

My head starts to spin. My stomach drops. _Of what I did to you_ – he makes it sound non-consensual, like an _assault_. "Why?"

He furrows his brows, looking pained. He pulls his hand away from me to drag both through his hair. "I practically – " he stops abruptly, snapping his mouth shut. It must get too much, because he looks away.

I frown at him, a sense of foreboding filling the air. I push myself into a sitting position, my hands tugging at his jaw so he'll look at me. He does so, eyes more than weary this time, eyes dark and sad and flecked with disbelief and self-loathing.

"Tell me," I say, insistent. It's weird how I'm so freely talking about a topic such as this – without stuttering or stammering or blushing to the high heavens. But I think it's because of the implications _behind_ it; the desperation that had been in his touch, the urgency swelling in his eyes.

He swallows hard, his adams-apple bobbing. "I practically . . . _molested_ you."

My eyebrows dart up in disbelief. "What?" I breathe.

He winces and pulls my hands away from his face. "Please don't try and make me feel better about it, because I won't."

I huff as he starts running his hands through his hair again, looking down at the floor – _glaring_, practically.

"Edward," I say, but it's like he doesn't hear me, he just continues to frown and pull at his hair.

"_Edward_." More sharply this time, but it prompts no reaction.

His eyes are far-away, and I'm worried that he's going to pull all of the hair out of his head at this rate.

I punch him in the arm.

And –

Nada.

"Fine," I mutter in frustration, before rising from the bed. I wobble on my feet for a second – my legs feel like jelly – before gaining my bearings. And then I throw myself rather unceremoniously, in his lap.

That gets his attention.

His head snaps up and he looks at me wide-eyed. His hands freeze in his hair as he gapes at me.

_Well . . . good._

"You don't get to say things like that, Edward Cullen." I poke him in the chest. "Because, _a)_ like you'd ever do such a thing, _b)_ you'd never hurt me and c) what makes you think I'd let you, _huh_?" I jab at his chest with each point I make, staring into his eyes determinedly. The depths of the green are so wide they almost swallow me whole, and his lips are parted in a perpetual state of surprise.

"Did you hear me say no?" I ask, raising my brows.

"Um . . . no, but – "

"Exactly, I _didn't_ say no. It wasn't an assault, Edward – you weren't . . . _molesting_ me," I spit out the word with a frown, because it doesn't make sense with Edward's name in the same sentence. "I wasn't letting you do something to me because I couldn't stop you, I was . . . " I steal a breath then, suddenly feeling my face warm. I fight the urge to look down, but I can't glance away from his eyes now. I swallow thickly. "I was letting you do it because I didn't want you to stop. It felt . . . " I trail of again, biting down on my bottom lip. He's watching me intently. "Good . . . really good." My breath judders out of me. "And I knew you would stop if I asked you to, but I didn't."

"Oh," he breathes back, and his breath judders, too. His eyes are like melting toffee, or soft fudge, and they entrance and hypnotise me. I find myself leaning closer on my body's own accord, but then he snaps his eyes closed and shakes his head, and the spell is momentarily broken. "But you told me to wait and I just – " he swallows, eyes still closed, remembering. "And I just didn't."

_"Edward, wait – " I start, but he cuts me off with a kiss as his hands rise, his fingertips circling the flesh on my – _

"It wouldn't have amounted to much," I say hoarsely, stopping my thoughts mid-track. "Believe me."

After a minute, he slowly opens his eyes again. They are still hesitant, but it's only a smidge in the corner of his eye now.

"Really," I say softly, reaching my hand up to brush away strands of penny-shiny hair. "I'm not mad. Not at all. It was wonderful. Nobody's ever – " I break off, bite my lip.

His own hand rises to cup my cheek – his skin so warm – and I lean into his touch.

"I was upset when you left, though," I tell him honestly. "I didn't know what you were thinking." I look down, away from his eyes. "I thought it was me."

"No, Bella," he whispers urgently, clasping my face in both hands and bringing my eyes back to his. "You were perfect."

_You were perfect._

My lips lift up into a wobbly smile, and I tackle him in a hug. My arms wind around his waist as I press my face into his chest, now covered in a pale blue t-shirt. I inhale deeply and nuzzle, feeling whole and complete again.

He hugs me back just as tightly, a little breathless laugh escaping him as he enfolds me into him. He is safety, strapping me in securely, and he is comfort, letting me rest completely against him. Steady, stable and firm.

And utterly mine.

After a while of communal hugging, his breath evens out - so that I almost think he might be sleeping, if not for the patterns his fingertips draw on my back. Or the fact that his lips brush ever so softly against my neck every five minutes or so.

Nevertheless, I whisper when I talk, because the bubble around us feels fragile.

"Edward?"

He hums back, holding me tighter. "You're wearing my shirt."

Startled, I pull back slightly and look down. True enough, I'm donning Edward's black shirt that he'd removed when we, when we . . .

_Anyway. Moving on._

I clear my throat slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, um, sorry. Do you mind?"

He shakes his head, his hair fluttering and tickling my skin. "No," he whispers, fingering the sleeve that's so big on me it nears my elbow, and then the bottom of the shirt where it rests against my thigh. "I like it."

_Oh._

_Well._

_Okay then._

I swallow hard at the sensation of his fingertips dancing over my skin. "Edward," I say again, trying to avoid distraction – _temptation_. "There's something I wanted to ask you."

He pulls back slightly then so he can see my face. He nods an _okay_.

"I just wanted to know . . . why, um, you did that? Not that I didn't like it because I did, I _really_ did, but there was just something . . . " I trail off, watching as a shadow flickers across his face. He knows what I'm asking, and he knows the answer. "You were so desperate," I whisper. "I could feel it."

His hands tighten around my waist minutely, and his eyes flicker to my neck. "You said all that stuff about Felix – all those things he's done to you, and they just kept on going around and around in my mind." He swallows hard as he stares at the almost-invisible mark, before bringing his eyes back to mine. They're full of pain, and it makes my heart twitch uncomfortably. "What if I'd lost you? I couldn't bear it. I just needed to . . . _feel_ you – that you were really _real _and here and alive and _safe_." He cups my face in his hands before running his fingertips over my cheeks, nose, lips, hair and neck. "I _was_ desperate. I needed you. I needed you in every capacity – in every way. And I needed to be able to touch you and stroke you and caress you just to prove to myself that you were more than okay and then I wanted **–" **he breaks off, and his eyes grow warm in a way that's only recently familiar. And I feel myself grow warm right back. " – and then I wanted . . . to make you feel more than okay."

I'm torn between an aching heart and intense heat bubbling underneath my skin. It's a strange combination, but I know immediately which one I must solve first.

"You make me okay," I whisper, bringing my hand forward and letting it rest over his heart. "I'll always be real with you, and I'll always be safe." I lean forward slightly, my fingertips tightening around his neck as I bring his head down to mine. I press my lips against his forehead – like he's done so many times to me – and whisper, "I _promise_."

He shudders, and tugs me into him again before bringing us to lie back on the bed. We peer at each other from on our sides.

He's smiling.

I am, too.

He quickly invades my territory – not like I mind – and nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck. He enfolds me, while at the same time curling _into_ me.

He's my _Mole_.

I smile wider against his hair, winding my fingers through the strands as he winds his arms around my waist. Holding me so completely, he roots me.

"Edward," I whisper after a moment.

"Yes, love?"

I grin, and then say, with a burning face, and only _half_ joking –

"Feel free to make me feel more than okay _anytime_."

His laughter reverberates throughout my whole body, and I'm smiling so wide, tears form at the corners of my eyes. I snigger quietly against his hair.

"You can count on it," he drawls back, his voice husky, placing an open mouthed kiss on my neck.

I gape and splutter and –

He bursts out laughing again.

But I'm pretty sure he's only half joking, too.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**A/N: So. I'll be over there, trying to magic these two into existence. Review? ;) **


	48. 47: Bubble bliss

**A/N: Very sorry for the wait! Been real busy with exams lately. :( But I couldn't neglect you guys any longer. So please, enjoy!**

* * *

**Edward, who?**

**The One Where . . . we live in a bubble, **_**until**_** . . . **

We return to Charlie's the next day, and from then on the minutes in the hours seem to whiz right by. Edward fits in with my life as easy a jigsaw puzzle piece; slotting in so irrevocably like there was a space just waiting for him all along. Of course, I'd known this prior for a month before, but that experience was somewhat tainted, because it was based on _hiding_ rather than _living_.

In the morning, I watch from the kitchen window as he and Charlie venture out into the woods – doing a whole heap of manly-bonding type stuff, I'm sure. He wears plaid, and Charlie does, too. And it makes me smile to see them go – their silence speaks volumes.

His afternoons are mine, and we spend them simply, peacefully. We went back to the meadow once, this time in broad daylight.

"_Wow." Edward gawks at our surroundings when we break through the cover of green, his eyes spanning the meadow in its entirety. "You weren't kidding."_

_We'd only been there once before, and it was nightfall then. In the daylight, especially on a day like today, everything was so much richer in colour and vibrancy. The expanse of it seemed larger, the volume of nature, bigger. _

_At night it was a comfortable mattress to rest our weary heads, the sequined sky a protective blanket and overseer. In the day, it was a rare green gem of the surface of a dusty world; a little slice of solitude in the noise._

_I smile. "I know," I agree, tugging him further in. "But you can go ahead and tell me how right I am anyway," I tease. _

_Rolling his eyes, and with a sudden devilish glint in his eye, he abruptly grasps me by the waist before I can bolt, and flings me over his shoulder as if I weigh ten pounds rather than one hundred and ten._

"_Hey!" I half-complain, half-giggle. I go to bang on his back, but get a better idea instead._

"_Beast!" he practically _squeals_ as I dig my fingers into his sides. He starts squirming frantically, as if trying to dislodge an army of ants from his underwear, and I can't help but laughing._

"_Stop, stop!" he pleads._

_As if. _

_Probably realising that he could drop me at any moment, he quickly tips me right way up and deposits me on the grass. I grin wickedly up at him, satisfied._

"_Funny," he deadpans through narrowed eyes._

_I shrug my shoulders back innocently. "What? You didn't _want_ me to tickle you? Oops." I lean back on my hands, smiling slowly, I say, "I guess I couldn't hear you through all that squealing."_

_He clears his throat and stands a little straighter. "I do not squeal," he says firmly, eyeing me._

_I raise an eyebrow, because that's a _lie_. "Really," I say." You sure about that?"_

"_Of cour –"_

"_You have a spider on your shoulder."_

_I fall back into the grass, laughing hysterically when he jumps about a foot in the air._

I snigger quietly into my mug of steaming tea, remembering.

"Hey honey," Charlie greets, coming into the kitchen with Edward in toe. He ruffles my hair as he passes and I huff, blowing brown strands out of my eyes. Edward smiles at me in greeting, stepping close to help brush back errant bits of hair.

"Hey," I greet them both with a smile. "Did you guys get some manly, wood-cutting done?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, looking between the two of them.

Charlie snorts at the sink, swivelling around to face us.

"Edward here," he says, waving a hand at my companion, "still has yet to find his way with the axe."

"I wasn't _that_ bad," Edward protests, his voice holding a distinct whine that makes me grin.

I give his arm a little pat, and say in a consoling manner, "Just not that good, huh?"

Charlie chortles and Edward turns his glower on me. "Just for that, you're not getting any wood."

I _psshaw_ at him. "I don't want your measly wood. I can go and get my own, thank you very much."

He plucks up my arm between his fingertips and wraps them around my bicep. He raises a brow.

I raise one back. "If you're trying to prove a point with this, it's just that you have freakishly long fingers."

He rolls his eyes. "Bella, wood is hard, you wouldn't be able to – "

"Would to." My lips twitch at my word play.

He shakes his head, as if to say, _oh dear_. "That was lame."

"Like your wood."

"You'll need my wood to keep you warm in the winter."

I peek behind him, looking for this so called 'wood.' "Yours is probably all small and tiny-like. It wouldn't be sufficient for my winter-warming needs."

He narrows his eyes at me, crossing his arms over his chest. Uh-oh. Seems I've hit a sore spot. "My wood would _more_ than meet your needs so – "

Charlie spluttering behind us breaks off our banter. "Okay, okay!" he sputters. "Stop talking! The both of you!"

We look at him, wide-eyed. "Um, dad? You okay?"

"Am I – " he starts incredulously, red-faced from his coughing. He stares at us for a moment before placing his hands over his eyes. He mumbles something I can't quite make out, but I grasp the words "death" and "me".

He grumbles on his way out of the kitchen, and Edward and I glance at each other in confusion as we watch him go, but we remain silent.

Just before he leaves, he turns around and points a finger at us both and says, "No more wood talking!" He prods the air at us twice before leaving and retreating upstairs, his grumbles finally easing out.

Edward and I look at each other again.

"What the heck was that about?"

"I dunno," I reply, shrugging. "You must have really cut some shoddy wood."

~#~

"Edward."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

I smile at the endearment and nudge my nose against his. We're lying entwined together in my childhood bed – because it's not much bigger than a single, not that we mind – in the dark with the curtains wide open. It's nearing midnight, and Edward snuck up about an hour ago when Charlie and Sue went to bed. Edward had been hesitant to break Charlie's "no room sharing" rule initially. But when I'd shown him all the… advantages room sharing had, his will had crumbled quickly.

Get your seedy minds out of the gutter, people! I meant the _star-gazing_ was an advantage. I happen to have a very big window in my before-bedroom. _Jeesh_!

I close my eyes and press my forehead into his neck. "Do you ever think you'll ever remember?"

I feel his chest rise and fall against me as he sighs, and I lay my palm against his chest, finding comfort in the beat of his heart.

"I don't know," he finally murmurs against my forehead. I bite the inside of my lip and feel a twinge inside of my chest, so I wind my arms around him tighter.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Bella – "

"I know," I cut him off softly. "I know you don't blame me, and I know you don't think I should be sorry, and selfishly even a part of _me_ isn't because I wouldn't have met you otherwise. And I know I sound like a broken record. But memories are – " I break off, and burrow deeper. "Memories are something you have when you don't have anything else, or they're something you have when you don't _need_ anything else. And I'll always be sorry I took those away from you."

"Oh, Bella," he sighs, clutching me back tightly in response. I blink wetly into his neck as he runs his hands up and down my back. "I'm making new memories everyday I'm with you, and when I'm with my family, too. Those others memories are just lost, not gone. But it's okay because you're helping me make even better ones."

I swallow around a lump in my throat and huff as I press my forehead against his collarbone. "How do you always say the right thing?" I murmur.

He presses his lips to my forehead, and I feel him smile against my skin. "Because your soul is too beautiful to lie to."

~#~

"Hey."

I blink my eyes awake slowly, cloudy brown meeting smiling green.

"Hey," I croak out. I let out a yawn and raise my arms above my head to stretch, inadvertently stretching against Edward in the process. He gives me a lazy grin and leans forward to kiss the dip in my neck when I stretch backwards.

"What time is it?" I yawn against his hair, noting a dull light infiltrating the room.

"Not seven yet," he murmurs, littering his kisses higher until they reach my lips. I kiss him back, but it ends with me yawning again.

"Sorry," I mutter, flushing when he chuckles against my cheek.

I roll my eyes sleepily. "Too early," I whine, swatting his scruffy cheek away. "Sleep."

He kisses my cheek before moving back and brushing hair away from my forehead. "You sleep an awful lot for such a small person."

I sigh, his ministrations soothing. "And you don't sleep enough, which is why you don't have such mad skills at wood-cutting."

"Oh, that's it. You've insulted my wood for long enough."

And then before I can even blink he's attacking me, mercilessly, his fingers digging into my sides and producing hysterical fits of laughter from me.

"Ahh! E – Edwaaaaaard, stop!"

"Say I can cut wood! Say it!"

"B – but I was ta – taught never to lie!" I gasp out when he wrestles me onto my back and starts on my stomach.

"Say. It!"

"Never!" I giggle.

This goes on for another five minutes or so before I try a different tactic.

"There's a – ahhh! – a s – spider on the ceiling!"

He narrows his eyes and huffs. But he's _laughing_ because I am. "_Not_ falling for it again."

More laughter bubbles out of me, louder. "Charlie could wake up!" I blurt out.

And _that_ stops him.

He freezes above me, wide-eyed, his mouth dropping open. "No," he mouths.

I try to catch my breath once he's stopped. "You little _punk_," I say, half-heatedly hitting him in the side.

He smirks at me. "Just getting my due payback, sweetheart."

"Whatever." I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out at him. "What are you doing awake so early, anyway?"

He shrugs, rolling off me to snuggle up by my side. "Couldn't sleep," he admits. "I was watching the sky, and you. And thinking."

I bring his head to my chest and wind my fingers around his copper strands. "What were you thinking about?"

He's quiet for a minute. "I have to go home soon."

The strings in my chest tighten around my heart at his words, and I try to server the chords. But it's impossible; he tugs my heart in all directions. "Oh," I say, oh-so quietly.

He peers up at me and frowns. "Why do you look so sad? You're… you're coming, right?"

I frown down at him in response, my brain abruptly kicking into motion. I hadn't thought about this. But of course he would want to go home, but suddenly… I'm not so sure I can go with him.

"Bella?"

"Um," I stammer. "Edward, I don't know if…" I trail off and make a motion to rise, so he lifts himself up off me as I sit. "I don't know if I can just, just _go_." I shake my head. "Not when I've come back."

He nods slowly. "So you're saying…"

"Edward, this is my _home_, so I just, I don't know…" I look down at my twisted hands, before looking back up at him. "I never thought…" I stammer, suddenly feeling panic seize my chest in a vice-like grip. "You'll be so far away," I whisper.

"Whoa, Bella, hold on." He reaches out to grasp my face in his hands, bringing my face close to his. "Don't… don't do that."

"What?" I ask, spiralling further, gripping his hands so I might keep him with me.

"Stop saying goodbye to me," he pleads.

I swallow thickly. "But aren't you going?"

"Not without you."

"But I told you I can't – "

"We're not going forever."

My brows furrow in confusion, the let on my heart easing. "But they're your family."

"So are you," he says softly, stroking the backs of his fingers down my face. "And I know I love them, and I love you, too. But I'm not abandoning anyone, so please stop waiting for me to."

"Sorry," I whisper, closing my eyes against his desperate green. "Every time things are going good I just feel like something bad has to happen to counteract it."

He presses a kiss against my forehead in assurance; lets his lips rest there. "It doesn't. Not if you don't want it to."

I smile wobbly and wind my arms around his waist, pressing my ear against his heart. The pressure that had been building up in my body dissipates slowly. "Sorry," I apologise again. "I don't mean to be so _clingy_." I cringe at the word.

"You're not clingy," he says, matter-of-factly, wrapping his arms around me until I'm enveloped into him. "But you can cling to me as much as you like," he teases, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

It works. I laugh quietly into his chest. "You may regret saying that," I mumble.

"I doubt it." He squeezes me. "You can be my own, adorable little bush-baby."

I smile and go to respond, but my door is burst open before I have a chance.

My eyes pop wide open in response to the intrusion, and Edward jumps, hastily dropping his arms from me when he sees it's Charlie. I roll my eyes in response.

"Dad, what's – "

He barrels past me, darting to my open window and immediately slamming the blinds shut and drawing the curtains closed. Edward and I watch him in confusion.

"Dad?" I ask in concern when he turns back around; his face is ashen, his eyes panicked. "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "You really don't want to know."

My heart picks up pace in my chest, and my worry increases ten-fold. "Tell me."

Wordlessly, he walks back out of the room. Edward glances at me worriedly, and reaches for my hand. Slowly, we follow behind Charlie, and every step we take feels like an omen.

"Don't turn the lights on," he warns softly as we enter the hallway. "Don't go near the window. Just look." He motions to the living room. And carefully, afraid of what I'll find, I poke my head around the doorway and my stomach immediately drops at what I see, swarmed outside our house.

"Oh God," Edward whispers from behind me.

Dozens of people rattle around outside, their voices a low, constant hum like the _buzz buzz_ of an army of angry bees. Cameras are hung around their necks, their hands pressed against the window pane as they try to peer inside – flashes after flashes like little lightning strikes to stun us.

"Oh fudge," I whisper. "They've found us."

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**A/N:**

**Dun, dun, dun! The press have arrived. Aw, drats!**

**Favourite part/moment/line? Personally, I had a bit of a giggle when writing that whole "wood" scenario. Edward and Bella are so adorably oblivious it makes my heart hurt. :')**

**And as mentioned at the top, I've had exams for the past few weeks so I've really been mostly devoting my time to that. But my last one is on thursday (yay!) so expect more, updates and quicker!**

**Thanks for reading, and if you're so inclined, reviewing, too. :) ~C, xo **


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